Deviation
by RuthieGreen
Summary: 1896-After Julia & William's 1st relationship falling out [S2:E6] how does she respond & her feelings change? He gets laid up for weeks after a physical fall [S2:E9]—what was she up to by herself? I think Julia is a brave heroine in her own right. How does she solve a mystery sans William? Lots of angst...Thank you Maureen & show writers for letting us play in your world. NEW CH 18
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This is another interstitial story for Season 2 slid between the ending of "** _ **Shades of Gray"**_ **and before "** _ **Murdoch dot Com**_ **."** **Bolded dialogue** **taken directly from the show. I assigned myself the task of writing a first person narrative with Julia as the heroine—I don't think her character gets enough credit for her essentially brave (stubborn) personality, and we only get glimpses of her strengths under a sometimes over-bright façade. Credit to Hélène Joy ( & the director(s)) from saving her character from being one-dimensional. Many thanks to my beta-reader "Dutch" who gets kudos for rescuing the story when I got bogged down, and to my friend "46-Her" for suggesting I write something else and give this a much-needed rest so I could come back to it in a better frame of mind. A central inspiration for one of the characters was the series of "Making Murdoch" interviews (guess who?), and the 2015 Toronto MM Fan Day—if you have gone, you will get the references in the story—and if you have not gone—well it is **_**beyond**_ _ **way**_ **cool, so get there next year! Thank you soooo much for all the encouragement I have gotten so far—it means more to me than you'll ever know. I love reviews and correspondence— this was more ambitions than I had originally planned so let me know what you liked or didn't-I will respond. Enjoy! -rg**

 **Chapter 1**

 **Tuesday Sept 1, 1896**

One benefit derived from discussing things over a whisky is that the liquid burning its way down from esophagus to stomach provides momentary distraction from whatever painful topic is in question. I was in no mood for sipping and took the glass down in a single swallow and asked for another.

"Julia," Isaac said, shaking his head and looking a little alarmed, "go a little slower on that. We need clear heads right now." Isaac knows me well enough to understand I am not a flighty female given to hysterics or the vapors, and he has seen me at my very worst, but he had a point about this being an instance requiring my full mental faculties. He was holding the alcoholic spirits he retrieved out of his desk drawer, the neck of the bottle hovering over my glass. We sat in the front room of his home which had been converted to a medical consulting office, the walls awash in slanting yellow light from two bright windows and a slight breeze ruffled the curtains, finally cooling the heat of the day.

I barely noticed the relief. I was fevered, and my heart was still racing from coming over as fast as I could arrange, and from acute anxiety regarding what was about to transpire between us. I told him, "I hold my liquor, Isaac, at least I do now. And I don't think I want to continue this completely sober." I took the second glass he poured and stopped myself from draining it, made a lady-like taste of the contents and set it down.

"All right. I am ready," I paused and motioned to him. "Tell me what happened with Detective Murdoch."

Isaac sat next to me looking tired and opened his collar a bit after loosening his cravat, his long face even longer than usual, and Iperceived new dark circles under his eyes and worry-lines bracketing them. He surveyed the room as if he needed to make a final inventory before parting from it and then looked at me very seriously with a deep frown on his usually gentle countenance. "Detective Murdoch was quite insistent in his pursuit of what he considers the truth. You should know he essentially _blackmailed_ me by threatening  you with being dragged to court and placed under oath." He swallowed once and then squared his shoulders. "I told him the truth—you and I did not conspire or obstruct his case. And I also admitted I perform safe abortions," he said with no hesitation. "And…. then I told him that whatever happens next was up to him." This last part he said more haltingly.

I gasped. "Oh, Isaac, you did that?" I was frightened for him and reached over to put my hand on his arm. My dear friend, Isaac Tash, who laboured to do so much good for so many, people had not just thrown away a career but his life could weigh in the balance, all because I ran to see him… _And because Detective William Murdoch cannot ever leave well-enough alone,_ I thought. My anger at William flared. Guilt then followed fear in short order and it all showed plainly on my face.

Isaac saw my distress. "There was nothing for it, Julia. I half expected him to arrest me then and there. I am still surprised he did not. He was very angry." He sat forward, placing his hands over my clenched fists. "Of course I did not say anything to him about your visit here but that meant I could offer no explanation for why you came to see me. When I was finished talking, he just stood there like a post saying nothing and then turned on his heels and walked out without another word."

Isaac resumed his drink, finished the glass and set it next to mine. "Julia, I will not run away and I will not implicate any of my patients, _or you,_ but I wonder if there is a way to minimize the damage the detective is about to wreak. I have a keen sense of dread about it all, and I must admit I am not looking forward to an investigation, my arrest or a trial, and waiting for the proverbial "other shoe to drop" is excruciating…" Isaac rubbed his fingers on his temples absent-mindedly while looking at me, a crooked smile on his face. He stood and refilled his glass, pouring it a little higher than his first draught despite his admonition to me about the necessity of clear thinking.

I sat back as my mind whirred. I could not help but think of the glorious week past and how supremely happy I had been about my life and about William for that handful of days. Sadness stabbed at me. There were so many implications to consider that my heart squeezed in my chest.

 _This must be what it feels like to have one's heart broken. Oh, William!_ _Do you have any idea what you have done?_ …was my painful thought.

I did not like the choices that presented themselves to me and agitation continued to mount despite the calming effects of the whisky. I am not in the habit of shrinking from what is difficult and can quell my doubts and fears when necessary this case was a different matter. I let out a breath to calm my nerves.

I told Isaac: "The law means everything to … er, Detective Murdoch. He essentially threatened me as well, even while framing it as trying to protect me… It was quite shocking actually; nothing I would have ever have expected from him, although I suppose I should have, knowing him as I do." _William and his obsession with the truth_ , I raged to myself. William, who had always been constrained or deferential with me, who seemed to take such pains to interact with me "correctly", had dropped that façade for a moment and revealed a whole different, unpleasant dimension to his personality that I was still trying to absorb. _Now I wonder if I ever really knew him…_

I considered the alternatives one by one, the dilemma roiling within me until I saw Isaac, who was gazing out one of the windows to the green lawn with a stricken look on his face. That brought me back to reality and pushed me past indecision. "Isaac, I don't know if he will listen to me, but I will ask him to meet with me somewhere private, away from work. If I can persuade him to rethink his intentions, I will. I will talk to you as soon as I know anything." I sighed and tried for some dark humor. "We may need another bottle of whisky, though…"

"What are you going to say to him?" Isaac asked quietly.

I looked down for a moment, gathering my thoughts. When I answered I tried to keep my voice level. "I am going to tell him the truth, since it means so much to him. I will tell him about my own abortion."

Isaac appeared startled. "Julia! You did not see him when he was here. He was enraged. I don't think that is advisable in the least. I have kept you out of it at great personal peril and I certainly do not wish you to be any more involved than you already have been. It could cost you your position _or worse_ … I cannot allow that…" Isaac was nearly shouting this and I do not think I ever saw him become so exercised before.

I reached over to calm him. "Oh, Isaac, it will cost me much more than that….but I will do what I have to do." I owed my friend more loyalty than I could ever repay. _But I already wondered if I was I going to able to stomach the consequences…_

Isaac and I sat and talked for another half hour or so as evening lengthened, but the conversation lagged so eventually I made my way home, turning over in my mind what I needed to do next as I traveled. Doing the right thing has always been important to me… _As_ _it supposedly was to the great, cerebral, detective,_ I thought acidly.I knew even though I did not want to let too much time pass before approaching William, I also did not relish having to have that conversation. It was too late at night to call on him and it was going to be at least the next day or the following before I could arrange to meet with him, so I was going to have to be patient and deal with my own dread while waiting. I reminded myself my gratitude to Isaac trumped everything else in this case including any, now-broken, romantic aspirations.

I tried to go to bed when I got home, but sleep was fractured and while I was awake my relationship with William telescoped in my mind. Years of circling around attraction. A week ago we were swept up in love. Two nights ago we should have been at the screening of the first motion picture in Toronto that William was so excited to see, followed by, what? Giving into the passion between us? But instead…. _All that wasted time!..._ And worse: _What if we had become lovers?_ _Yes…what if we had allowed that built-up, ungoverned passion to run loose between us?_ Just thinking about it set off a wave of exquisite feelings inside me that I struggled to suppress.

Other thoughts clamored too: _Would he really have made love to me there in the soft August darkness, that oh-so-proper man, if I had permitted it? …Had asked for it?_ … I had a _frisson_ of delighted fear at the thought of being with him in a place where we could have been _discovered!_ …..

Then I stopped abruptly. _What if it had been tepid or awkward?...But on second thought, that was unlikely considering how quickly things developed that night and how masterful his kisses were…_

 _To have had relations with him_ … _What sort of commitment would that have signaled—to him? To me?_ _Would he have thought that meant he_ claimed _me for himself? Did I_ want _a commitment?_ _Would he have thought he_ _had_ _to marry me? Did I want to marry at all, let alone a Catholic policeman, of all things?_ I was appalled at some of my thoughts: on the basis of one (uninterrupted, potentially disastrous) date, I had let my imagination run away with me, roughshod over my common sense. _Where did ridiculous ideas like these ever come from_?

I have to admit I cried in vexation and wept into my pillow, hoping to get the tears and the feelings wrung out of the way of necessary action. I certainly did not wish to confront William as a weak, indecisive, and emotional female.

 **Wednesday September 2**

The next morning I saw a woman who was barely holding on to sanity staring back at me in the mirror. _What had William Murdoch done to me?_ I almost wailed. It took me quite some time before I could control myself with pointed self-castigation and deep breathing exercises until I could find some superficial composure. I got up, dressed very carefully in what I thought of as my most professional suit, (the dark blue one I usually wore to court when my testimony was required), and determinedly went to my office, my stomach so sour I was unable to eat breakfast. It was fortunate that I was alone in the morgue that morning; no one, at least among the living, was there who could disturb my fragile self-control.

I had to call three separate times to speak with William directly as I was unwilling to leave a message. I almost backed out as I heard his voice when he finally answered the telephone at his desk. He agreed to see me on his supper hour later in the afternoon, all the way in Queen's Park, so we could avoid being observed or interrupted. He did not even ask why. I suspected he knew the talk would not be pleasant and I am sure he understood perfectly well that I was perturbed with him, for all I tried to speak in a neutral tone. That in itself probably gave it away, as I am sure there was very little warmth in my voice.

After putting the telephone receiver in its cradle, I picked up my notes for the three most recent autopsies I performed and arranged them in proper order so I could compose my final reports. I had gotten the idea of keeping track of the particulars of each case in a way that data could be collected and analyzed, from a discussion William and I had had one night after solving a baffling puzzle. The case that almost went nowhere until we realized that a larger perspective was necessary.

As it remained a good idea despite its provenance, I got out my ledger and entered the information for these three cases: age, gender, cause of death, manner of death, location of death, home address, family status, occupation, and then listed forensic results associated with the case. I was collecting information neither governmental body so far wanted or needed. I hoped at some point to show the usefulness of these facts when I collected enough to determine patterns. These three deaths seemed to be rather straight forward: one victim of a domestic argument (stabbed), one supposedly accidental drowning and one pensioner who died after getting intoxicated and suffering a fall.

All morning I struggled to focus on my reports, managing to eat a small lunch at my desk. It was not until a new body arrived in the morgue that I was aware time had actually passed, and I felt more myself again-calm and steady. If I did not get going I would be late for my meeting with William. _Not to the assignation in the park I had been hoping for, planning for…_.My unruly mind kept returning there.

A carriage dropped me off at the park's edge and I started walking to the place we arranged to talk. On my way there I drew near one end of the path to a grove of trees where we first kissed and came so very close to being intimate- _Was it only a week ago?_ …The remembrance rushed back. _How could it not?_ I had replayed the scene to myself so many times over those last few days for the joy it had given me and the delicious anticipation of making love with William. Memories of his wonderful kisses floated sparks on my lips...and, _other_ places on my person. Even last night, in what little sleep I got _,_ is kissesI had dreamt of aching for him to touch me and consummating our passion… finally coming undone in his embrace…. _All ashes now_.

I pulled myself abruptly out of that fantasy and reminded myself that I was furious at him and I needed to put those thoughts ruthlessly aside and hurry along so I would not have the time, or inclination, to change my mind or course of action. As it was, I got there before William did. I eventually spied him setting his bike aside and hesitating some distance away. He approached me slowly across the grass and sat next to me, hat in hand, appearing to my eye to be not quite sure of himself.

Before I could say my peace he told me he had decided not to charge Isaac, and gave the excuse it was because doing so would involve investigating his patients and "others." I was of course relieved and very surprised that no persuasion from me was going to be needed. Someday I might have the opportunity to ask him why...

 _He also did not apologize for what he had done and how he did it,_ I noticed. _If I were honest with myself I am not sure it would have made any difference if he had…_

I could have let the matter rest, I suppose, but I felt compelled to see it through to the end. What else, really, was there to do? William just sat there beside me, looking subdued, tentative and diminished in some way, so much so I actually found myself starting to feel a little sorry for him. Entertaining those tender feelings would destroy my resolve so I forced myself to banish them, aided by how very outraged I was at him for his behavior and what it had already cost… and for what was coming next.

Even though I did not need to use any inducement with William to protect Isaac, there was the matter of the relationship developing between us. The remainder of the discussion on the park bench went both better, (and worse), than I had rehearsed. I spoke to him just as I would have to any family member, of a patient with a horrible prognosis, who was struggling to accept the inevitable bad outcome: direct, compassionate but firm, sequestering my feelings behind a professional demeanor. I _was_ truly sorry things between us had come to this end and managed to tell him that, quite honestly. So instead of putting the past behind us, I put William behind me as I walked away. Only then do I allow a few tears to run as I sought another hansom to bring me to Isaac's. I was relieved I had the good sense not to give in to an impulse to look back.

If I had looked back or if William had come after me to protest….well, I am not sure what impact it would have had, but considering he made no attempt to prevent me from walking away told me something about our relationship…although exactly what I had yet to figure out.

Isaac was with a patient in his consulting rooms when I got to his home, so I walked slowly in his garden, hoping the diversion of the flowers would calm my nerves and bring my mind to order. It did not really work; I could not see the colors or smell the fragrances—all I saw in my mind was William's face as I parted from him and his clean scent lingered in my nostrils. Isaac spotted me as he escorted his last patients, a girl and her mother, to the door and joined me outside, bringing me back to awareness of the present moment.

"Julia. Thank you for coming so quickly." By way of explanation for why he directed me deeper into his garden, he said, "I had my contagion clinic this afternoon." He looked back at his patient's carriage as it drove off and shook his head. "The cost of the some of the treatments are outrageous—I still have to import diphtheria antitoxin for instance, from Philadelphia or from Germany for my patients and carefully titrate the dosages as there is still no standardization." His face clouded. "Only the very rich can afford the treatments for their children, much to my despair, and even then there are the occasional deaths from the treatment itself."

Isaac clearly wanted my news but was afraid to hear it, offering this superficial conversation instead. He said, "We will have to wait a bit to go in, unless you want to come upstairs to my quarters to talk, as the rooms have to air and I have to disinfect…"

"Of course, that is a wise protocol," I agreed as we strolled together towards the back of the property.

"So, Julia, how much of an enemy have I made out of Detective Murdoch?" Isaac finally asked directly, a resigned look on his face.

"Isaac, I can tell you right now you do not have to worry. Detective Murdoch is not going to trouble you, and he will not be pursuing charges." I gave his hand a touch and put my arm through his as we walked.

"Julia, how did you convince him? I thought for certain…" His evident relief was mixed with puzzlement.

"It was not difficult at all. He had already come to that conclusion, somehow, on his own. It was remarkable, really," I said with wonderment in my own voice.

Isaac countered, "But he was so adamant when I spoke with him, even made sure I knew the implications of confessing my crimes…"

"Isaac, the detective is not your enemy, at least not any longer." I looked at Isaac, whose face registered curiosity at my statement, so I continued explaining, managing a wry smile. "He thought you and I were lovers at University, and that you played on that relationship to suborn my testimony or interfere with his investigation…" _Just as I was going to try to use my relationship with William to persuade him against charging you,_ I recognized with a flash of guilt...

"So I corrected his assumption and told him instead how you saved my life." I looked up at Isaac. "He thought you were his rival…for my affections, if you can believe that! He saw us embracing as I left here the other day and jumped to conclusions. I think he is now feeling he is rather in your debt for saving my life, in fact he told me so…"

Isaac reacted rather vehemently to this news, I thought. He exclaimed: "Oh, Julia, no! Not you and… _him?!_ " My face apparently gave me away. "Of all the unsuitable men you could have chosen! A policeman? Really, Julia, it is not like you could have brought him home and presented him to your family…or was that the point? More antagonism towards your father, like at Bishop's?" Isaac forgot momentarily about his own brush with danger and focused on me instead.

"Isaac. You know my father would have preferred I come away from University with a "Mrs" in front of my name rather than an "MD" after it!" I snapped back, my anger easily aroused about the old wound. It took a second or two to recover myself. "I'm sorry, I should not have spoken so sharply, I know you have never been like that…" Then I saw another thought surface in his face.

"The diaphragm you asked me for. It was not for someone else, was it? But, why? You can't….Oh, dear…" Isaac trailed off, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable.

I ducked my head for a moment, unsure what to say…but it was a day of truths…"Yes, Isaac. The detective and I… were becoming involved." _Falling in love actually, or at least that is what it seemed to me_ , I thought. "But no, we never got the opportunity to become, er, intimate…. As to why I wanted contraception… I was trying for an abundance of caution." I confessed and felt the blush rise in my face.

"But Julia, the son of an alcoholic fisherman, with no university training, who lives in a boarding house, and no family to speak of? The police are hardly one step above the criminals they pursue! What were you possibly _thinking_?" Isaac looked quite bewildered.

I was thinking: _William Murdoch is the most exciting, intelligent, passionate and attractive man I have ever met, and that I believed I had found the love of my life_ …

"Isaac, how do you know so much about him?" I asked instead.

"I made some inquiries, wanting to know who and what I was up against," he said reasonably.

"I see. You forgot to mention his unparalleled conviction record…" I added.

"Yes...there is also that, I discovered, much to my disquiet…"

"Isaac, he is quite accomplished, despite his background…but I will not defend him, nor myself about him here."

"No, of course not. I apologize," he offered.

I looked at him very earnestly. "No need. We have been friends too long for quarrels. You were the first man who treated me as an equal and taught me that men and women can be genuine friends. I have always been grateful for that, and so much more…" _In fact, the template of my friendship with you made it possible for me to work so well with William in the first place…._ I had to bring myself up short again from those contemplations.

"Perhaps it is time to consider a change for yourself Julia." Isaac stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me. "Oh, I _do_ wish you would come back to the practice of medicine and get out of that morgue! There is a great need for accomplished physicians and you could do more good for more people than as a pathologist. Think of the possibilities! You can help bring modern medical practices to Toronto, especially because so many of our colleagues, I swear, haven't changed any of their notions or ideas since the civil war in the States. The University is sponsoring health clinics now and would welcome a skilled doctor. You could form your own practice and specialize in whatever you wanted. Even a women's clinic… And you _were_ top in our class in surgery…" This was not the first time Isaac had pressured for me to leave my job as coroner.

"Yes, but when I graduated, no hospital would accept a female surgeon. Do you remember Professor Brayton declaring that my abilities were only because of my small hands and womanly skill at sewing? Right after he pontificated about how much _male_ strength surgery requires…?" I reminded him. "The only other woman taking classes while I was there is still cutting up rodents in a laboratory as far as I know! At least I get to work on people as coroner."

Isaac smiled at that, but then the humour evaporated. "Julia, may I ask what else happened with Detective Murdoch?"

I paused again to collect myself and exhaled. "About what one would expect. He is a policeman after all, sworn to uphold the law, and, you also forgot to mention in your research, a _Roman Catholic_ one at that! His very being could not encompass what I had to say…."

I could find no words to continue, recalling the conversation – was it only an hour or so ago? I replayed William's statement that paralleled my own, ' _I will do what I have to do,'_ and of course then, as I predicted, his hesitation regarding his feelings for me…

"So, he rejected you," Isaac said softly.

I shook my head and sighed. "No, not exactly," I said and made a face. "I asked him a question I already suspected he could not answer." _William is not the only one who can frame an argument…it was easy because he is so predictable,_ I said angrily to myself.

"We… _no_ , I…ended things, _now_ …before it could go any farther," then I gave a bitter laugh. "I had told my sister once it was not advisable to conduct a workplace romance—apparently I should have taken my own advice," at which point grief and frustration punctuated my awareness and I could not keep a sob from escaping. "At least I did not cry in front of him," I said as Isaac passed me his handkerchief.

Isaac turned again, took my arm and led me back to his house. "That's all right Julia," he said. "Let's go inside for that drink and let me tell you about an idea to take your mind of your troubles…." I was grateful for his support and thought: _How can one hundred sixty eight hours, more or less, have so utterly overturned my life?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 **Friday - Saturday, September 11 & 12**

"Doctor, do you have the results of your autopsy?" The detective looked around the morgue uncomfortably, not knowing where to put his eyes. I tried not to sigh in frustration. Considering I was elbow-deep in the corpse he was inquiring about I would have thought it obvious. I came in very early to conduct the postmortem and did not expect any visitors so soon in the day.

I worked to keep the irritation out of my voice. "No, I am not. There is considerably more to do on the physical examination and then I have to run the pathology and toxicology lab work before I can complete my report. My preliminary conclusion is that he succumbed to drowning but the condition of the body is such that it is hard to differentiate pre- and post mortem damage. Do you have any more information from your investigation that might help me?"

"No, doctor, I do not, at least not definitively. He was a some-time delivery boy named Daniel Murphy who carted the Whitefish haul off the boats, and occasionally went out with the fleet, at least according to my inquiries. He hasn't been seen in a week or more. Red hair that colour, although not uncommon in Cabbage or Cork-town is not unusual, but the length of the hair is, so all I needed to do was ask around. He had been a street boy before, arrested for petty theft and fighting in the past, well-known to drink leftover beer dregs every morning before looking for work. Hard to imagine he went swimming on lark this time of year and fishermen and sailors are notorious for not knowing how to swim—more likely he was drunk and tipped over from a boat or even, er… relieving himself. A trawler scooped him up in their net and dragged him aboard." Some of that information was consistent with my physical findings. Despite his youth the hands were scarred and calloused and he had work orders and bills of lading jammed in a waterproof bill fold.

"That would account for most of the damage to the flesh. I see no broken bones, no stab wounds and no head wound…" I was

"So, no evidence of foul play?" he interrupted.

"None so far….." I answered.

He interrupted again. "If there is no evidence of foul play then I will be satisfied with that." He turned to leave.

 _Good grief,_ I complained to myself. _This was getting tiresome. Coming in here and then leaving without really listening to what I have to say._

"Detective!" I suppose I spoke rather abruptly, but at least it stopped him and he turned around.

"Yes, doctor?" He looked back at me with an uninterested gaze.

"How did you get assigned to this case? And don't you want to know if he was drugged or under the influence?" I asked.

"I was called in by the local alderman. As for this young man, it would be surprising if he was not under the influence of something or another. But I am not going to waste my time, or yours, on any further investigation. As far as I am concerned he fell in the water, whether off a boat or off the docks, and I will file it under accidental deaths. We find these drownings occasionally—someone slips into the water and can't swim. The boat has moved on and the crew is afraid to tell for fear of the repercussions, especially if the missing person is a day-worker or immigrant and no connection to the boat can be proven. You are aware, are you not, doctor, that after disease, the leading cause of death in persons under the age of majority is accidents, usually falls?" he said in a rather supercilious manner.

I was outraged at his attitude. I knew perfectly well that overall average life-expectancy was about fifty years, but the statistic was skewed to that lower number because of the frequency of deaths in children and young people.

" _Detective Phillips_ , please at least let me finish my report, so that the inquest can be formally conducted with all the necessary facts." I said it clearly, and as calmly and professionally as possible.

"As you wish, doctor," he said, thanked me in a perfunctory way and left, hurrying to escape the morgue- one of his least-favorite places. _It was a wonder he came at all; he usually sends one of his men from Station House No 3 in his place… At least the constable he sends usually pays attention and takes notes. Perhaps Detective Phillips was nearby for a meeting of some kind_ , I thought. I went back to my autopsy in a foul mood and was about to weigh the intestines when Constable Crabtree came in. I admit I was relieved he was alone.

"Constable Crabtree, may I help you?"

"Doctor, you are needed at a crime scene," he announced. "There has been a murder over at the University—one of the professors has been shot." The constable winced a bit as I transferred guts onto the scale accompanied by a wet slithery sound, and he kept his eyes firmly on me. He was another one that did not like to engage too deeply in the workings of an autopsy, but he was at least respectful of both the deceased and me in my job, and getting more used to the attendant sights and smells of it as time passed. _And this corpse_ did _smell._ I wager George Crabtree has ambitions to rise in the ranks to detective, and I firmly believe one day he will make it. "I will send for the morgue wagon for you on my way over if you like, doctor. Will you be riding in with Detective Murdoch?" he asked.

I only hesitated briefly, betraying nothing, I hoped. "No, Constable, I don't think so today. And yes, please call for the wagon. I will get washed up and head over to ride in that when I am through here. Tell the driver to wait for me."

He tipped the brim of his helmet at me and said. "Yes, ma'am."

"And Constable," I caught his eye before he turned away, "bring your young friend around this week for me to look at his stitches." The boy in question, about 10 years old I would judge, suffered a gash on his arm that I tended to. I had occasionally agreed to perform a simple medical intervention for one young person or another that he brought to me. He would find them during the course of his police duties; some were from his network of informants and some were just impoverished with no alternatives, whom the constable took a shine to.

I liked doing that much better than the necessary pathology on the children that were brought to me for autopsy. Even after all this time and all the bodies, the young were still the hardest for me. I generally took extra time and paid extra care and attention to their families, who suffered greatly from the losses, even in a day and age when it was expected that children die so frequently.

"Thank you for offering, doctor. I would if I could," he said, frowning.

"I don't understand," I said.

"Well, doctor, I looked for the lad in his usual haunts and I have asked around, to check for infection as you wanted me to. No one has seen him since I brought him in here last week for you to take care of him and then I dropped him back off by the docklands. It's not that peculiar I suppose, him disappearing like that…I don't know much about him and all…" The constable sighed. "There will always be another youngster who needs help, doctor. I do appreciate it very much, you doing me these favors."

I smiled at him sincerely. "You have a good heart, George. Any time you need something, always ask." I looked around at my progress with my current corpse. "I will be along presently." He acknowledged me and left.

I finished my weighing and notes, covered the body and pushed it back into the cold-room. I admit I did this slowly so I could collect myself. I had not seen nor spoken to _Detective Murdoch_ in the week or so following our talk in the park, and this would be our first case together since then. The detective had kept his word and not pursued any charges against Isaac or myself, at least so far as I knew. I grabbed my bag and my long red wool coat and found the wagon waiting for me. On the way over I decided if there was time I would stop by the University lab while I was there anyway and pick up my most recent toxicology results, hopefully getting them sooner than if I waited for the messenger.

By the time I arrived at the crime scene to examine Professor Bennett's body _in situ,_ the constabulary was conducting their preliminary investigation and Detective Murdoch was in charge. I put on a professional appearance to set the tone I wanted with him. I hoped Constable Crabtree did not read any estrangement between us. My mouth was a little dry and I was irritated with myself for the reaction. _Honestly, I was not a school girl after all!_

I promised to do the autopsy right away, even though I was occupied with other work, I suppose because I wanted to show the detective that I was not going to take anything negative about our failed relationship into how I conducted the postmortems for his cases.

This was a mistake, I fear.

Telling the detective that I would complete Professor Bennett's examination immediately was tantamount to giving him the idea I was going to make his cases some kind of priority and this presumption irked me. When he came to see me for my preliminary report it, was all together quite uncomfortable. We tangled over the evidence, both of us, I think, not wanting to even brush our fingers together. I knew for myself it was going to be better not to, as even a causal touch would likely result in a strong physical reaction on my part and I wanted to avoid the embarrassment. I considered probably for him, touch would result in revulsion now that he knew what I had done.

I observed he was oddly inappropriate and tried to be uncharacteristically charming, striking up an inane conversation, so it was a good thing that I needed to get back to the other work I postponed, or he would have monopolized more of my time. It felt better to dismiss him by turning my back on him and resume my duties. _If only I could dismiss him from my thoughts as easily as from my presence..._

Work would have to serve to keep me focused. I went to my desk overlooking the morgue bay and opened the envelope containing toxicology results I picked up from my colleague, Dr Paul DuMaurier, in the University laboratory.

Paul graduated with Isaac and me, and, like me, was not practicing traditional medicine, but was teaching at the University. We had been rivals of sorts in chemistry at school, with Paul ultimately gaining the top ranking. He was a professor in the medical school and researcher now, and while we did not frequently socialize any more, we had developed a professional collaboration He agreed that some pathology and toxicology analyses requiring more sophisticated equipment than available at the city morgue, would be contracted out to his lab and paid for by the city. The arrangement benefitted us both. I had not visited his laboratory in quite some time and when I looked in today I was fascinated by his new apparatus and immediately jealous, wondering what it would take to replicate or even borrow some of it in the future.

I read over the toxicology report and entered the new data in my ledger. I decided to see if I could approximate some of the equipment I saw at the University today on my own workbench, and set to gathering the necessary material and glassware. I thought it would give me an excuse to visit Paul later with my results, and finish our discussion about scientific principles. It would certainly provide much-needed intellectual distraction for me and perhaps lead to additional collaborations.

Through the morgue's glass partition I could see Professor Bennett's corpse still lying on the gurney. I had already determined the facts about the cause (bullet wound) and manner of death (homicide) of the man. It would be up to someone else to figure out how it was done and by whom, and a jury would judge the case.

I could let go of worrying, at least about that outcome.

# # #

So it annoyed me no end when Detective Murdoch showed up in my morgue, _again_ , the next day, pacing back and forth, discoursing on his theories about his investigation, making it very difficult to divide my attention between him and the experiment I was trying to recreate from the university lab. The timing needed to be very precise with the reagents or I was going to have to start all over again.

He said I was useful as a sounding board, of all things, some sort of passive reflection for his speculation, and then he just disappeared without even a by-your-leave when I did not drop what I was doing and pay attention to him. I rolled my eyes in frustration. _Sometimes he treats me as if I am his personal pathologist, rather than the Toronto City Coroner. I do have other precincts and other detectives for whom I conduct autopsies, which he appears to regularly forget with his own demands. Typical!_ I thought.

 **Monday September 14**

When he came back a third time, I was in the middle of an autopsy and in no state of mind to tolerate his intrusions. I tried to reset his expectations again by emphasizing I was available to him for consultations regarding my duties as coroner.

He turned the conversation instead more personal, and said the strangest thing to me, even invoking my Christian name: **"Julia, I know that things have become somewhat awkward between us…"**

 _Somewhat awkward_? That was an understatement of the first water.

"… **But I want you to know I have always thought of you as much more than a pathologist..."**

 _More than a pathologist_? To what was he referring, pray tell? All the words of (supposed) love and affection he poured from his lips as we lay in the grass? His physical passion aroused sufficiently for me to know, _quite_ intimately, he "dresses" left?

"… **And I hope that can continue."**

 _Continue?_ What in Heaven's name did he wish to continue that was remotely possible under the circumstances?

I found myself briefly at a loss for words, and then realized my mind was taking me beyond the point and reigned myself back in before my face could show a blush or embarrassment. I also tried not to be rude… _As a_ lady _is never_ un _intentionally rude_ , _as they say…_

So I answered somewhat vaguely, **"Well, I suppose there is no harm in trying,"** and refocused the gist of his conversation. The help he requested was of a personal nature for Constable Crabtree, sufficiently intriguing that I agreed. I was relieved he did not make any further demands on my time, and left me alone to finish my _other_ work, as there seemed to be an overabundance of it lately from the other Toronto precincts.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 **Wednesday September 16**

Two days later, Inspector Brackenreidwas kind enough to give me a ride to the University in his carriage since we were both headed that way, and he invited me to watch Detective Murdoch confront the suspects in Professor Bennett's murder. I was intrigued by the case, so I agreed to the invitation and settled in beside him in the official police hansom.

"So, Inspector, what brings on your good mood this morning?" I asked, as he was positively jolly. I seldom had much occasion for longer conversations with him, but even I could recognize he was practically bursting to share good news of some kind as we rode.

"Doctor Ogden, how kind of you to ask. Yes, I suppose I _am_ in a good mood today." He smiled, and then bent a little to come closer to me, looking side to side for a moment. "Doctor, keep it on the "Q-T"…er, it's not for public consumption, mind you. The information mostly used by the higher-ups to keep order in the ranks and to show off for the gentry But I _am_ very proud of the men because I have been informed just this morning that the overall crime rate, particularly murder in Station House No. 4's precinct, is down significantly for the third month. Our conviction rate beat out O'Kelley at Station House No. 5, putting us on top once again. The Chief Constable even complemented us, if you can bloody-well believe that!" He thumped his walking stick on the carriage floor for emphasis. "Davis from Station No. 2 made a joke that I must have been cheating—how the blue blazes could someone cheat! Ridiculous! I like to think that it is all due to fine basic police work. I think its getting out there and being a strong presence deters criminals, and paying attention to the details of the crimes gets convictions. Your expertise, of course doctor, and our good working relationship with your office, certainly leads to stronger cases for the crown prosecutor to present at court." The inspector practically beamed at me. I understood the impulse to brag a little; I sometimes did that myself, especially to colleagues who dismiss or downgrade my work.

"Well, inspector, it is my job after all, but I appreciate that never the less." I thanked him modestly, but in fact I was pleased—I seldom receive any praise for the results of what I do (and even less understanding of what I actually do— _with one notable exception of course_ ….)

The inspector was a rather traditional man- I knew that it took him quite some time to come around to accepting me in my job. As we rode, he went on at length about his early morning meeting and the sometimes-rivalry between himself and other precinct inspectors. I mostly provided a captive audience, but I did ask him to forward a copy of the statistics to me and he agreed, before returning to the current case and the plan for capturing Professor Bennett's killers.

"I hope Murdoch's got this one right," he said.

"Excuse me?" I asked. The inspector occasionally grumbled about his detective, despite benefitting from his abilities. On more than one occasion I had overheard the inspector criticizing the detective's process: 'M _urdoch has only two speeds, slow and dead-slow…and I have to take the heat for him….'_ Or words to that effect…

"He's been a bit erratic, a lot of false starts on this case, or at least more than usual. He has fine instincts, I'll give him that, but he forever has to run everything though all the permutations before coming up with an answer…takes him bloody-well too long sometimes to make up his mind…Stretches the patience, if you know what I mean…"

I knew all too well…

The inspector drew in a breath and exhaled forcefully. "I think he has it all sorted out now. Can't say as I understand it all, something about the physics I mean, but…as long as he gets results, eh doctor?"

I concurred to be polite, but was unsure I agreed.

We arrived at the University physics lecture hall, where I eventually joined the inspector high in the gallery, just a few feet from the suspects, it turned out. Speaking from the lectern down below, we watched Detective Murdoch set and execute a trap by preying on the weakest of the pair, in this case Mr Perry, who ultimately turned on Mr Gillies.

I studied him carefully, _and there it was_ : that anger and the sarcastic edge wrapped in the trappings of gentlemanly civility. The calculated aggressiveness that the detective certainly never directed at me…at least not before recent events. It was remarkable as well as chilling to see him play to his audience, moving like a chess master, shrewdly separating the young men from each other and brilliantly maneuvering the two of them into confessing. I had been a party to this sort of gambit before, but had a new, more visceral appreciation about it now.

I left after the arrests, uncertain how I felt about Detective Murdoch's flare for the dramatic, so I put those uncomfortable musings away. I wanted to focus on the real reason I came—to call on the University laboratory and speak with Paul. So I walked across the quadrangle and over into another red brick building, one that survived the devastating fire of 1890, and up three flights of stairs. I asked if Dr DuMaurier was available. One of his lab assistants, a short stocky man who introduced himself as Mr Norwood, directed me with his thumb across the hall to a cramped office with a rather sarcastic quip: "His lordship, the professor, is over there."

I knocked on the door. Paul looked up, unfolded his tall, thin form from behind a cluttered desk in a brightly lit space and greeted me with his usual distracted and patrician expression.

"Julia. What are you doing here and to what do I owe the pleasure? I have no new results for you…" His long auburn hair was rumpled and his jacket pockets sagged. Paul was the second son of a wealthy landed English family (despite the French-sounding surname), and his breeding showed in his vowels and clipped speech, if not in his sartorial choices. I greeted him warmly and he invited me to sit after relocating papers off an armchair I could use.

"I just witnessed the arrest of two students, a Mr Gillies and Mr Perry, in Professor Bennett's death. Did you know the victim well?" I asked.

"What? Oh, well, I heard about the murder of course, but really I have minimal inclination for social connection with other faculty. I am mostly absorbed in my work here…" He gestured around at the chaos. "But I _do_ know the students. Ah…Gillies and Perry. An interesting pair. Bright lad, Mr Gillies, definitely in need of some guidance. I had them both for bio-chemistry, you know, and I had even recruited them to be research assistants at one point, like Mr Norwood over there. Mr Perry was able-enough, but I thought Mr Gillies has the right frame of mind for science, an idiosyncratic thinker with a cool, rational intellect. It's a shame, really…" Paul got that distracted look again and stopped in mid-sentence.

"You mean Professor Bennett's death, I assume?" I asked.

"Why, yes, of course. I was just wondering what Mr Gillies was really after and if he got the results he was looking for." Paul answered. I had no idea what he meant by that, but Paul was always curious was well as refreshingly blunt and hyper-rational… albeit with little emotional depth, which I found rather soothing at the moment; no uncomfortable hidden turmoil, no disconcerting sub-text.

"Paul, I was wondering if you could help me." I explained my mission to borrow a piece of equipment to better examine tissue samples. He said he thought he had some options for me to look at and hollered over to his assistant to drop what he was doing and render assistance. I told him about my own trial with replicating one of his experiments and he gave me advice on improving my results. While we went over to his lab we caught up with each other's lives, and vented some mutual frustrations with work-place politics.

As I admired his equipment and inquired a little about his research, he elucidated parallels in our chosen professions. "Julia, you and I must be impartial, rational, unemotional and serve only the facts. You may be paid _by_ the city but you work _for_ neither the prosecution nor the defense."

This statement reminded me with a jolt that being drawn to William and wishing to help solve his cases could in fact be a source of prejudice that I had not heretofore considered. _And on deeper reflection: personal influence on a case was just what "_ the detective" _had been concerned about with Isaac and me…_

Paul continued. "You and I do not pre-judge, in fact, do not judge at all, and must let the facts take us where ever logically they do. We cannot get emotionally involved in the smaller details, and must keep our eyes on the bigger picture, free from those constraints that the small-minded bureaucrats or superstitious impose." Paul's defiance of authority was well-established even before our University days.

Our rambling conversation was welcome to my frayed nerves and it eventually wound its way tangentially away from the scientific to the philosophical. He spoke admiringly of the principle of separation of church and state, theoretically in place south of the border, and in frustrated tones about recent sermonizing and newspaper articles disparaging scientific discoveries.

"I believe science lies outside the sphere to which moral judgements should be relevant: the scientific method only supplies facts which are neither moral nor immoral. Don't you think so?" he asked me. "That facts are a-moral and should not be bound up with religious tradition? Consider how often religion must inexorably bow to science! Worse yet is when men sermonize and protest against medical advances, thinking _they_ know _God's_ will! I am surprised Mr Darwin has not been pilloried more than he has already been." He warmed to his subject.

"I quite agree, Paul. Religious superstition and moralizing impair rational thinking." I answered, with my thoughts flicking sharply to Detective Murdoch before I quashed them. "We live in enlightened times now and should have no room for anything that is not based in scientific evidence."

I recalled Isaac's complaints from my conversation with him the other day while he was trying to persuade me out of the morgue and into becoming a practicing physician again. "And do you know there are doctors that still ascribed to the idea of bloodletting and leeches? Herbal potions? Patent medicines? That do not wash their hands or disinfect? Misdiagnose and fail to properly treat? Think about how frequently fashionable medical ideas rise and fade. And those ghastly medical device fairs… It is appalling, really. The facts are available but so many of our colleagues in medicine do not avail themselves of them, mired as they are in the past…." I added my own complaints.

"Yes! Not open to new, modern ideas!" Paul jumped in. "I quite agree with Thomas Huxley that one must follow reason as far as it will take you, without regard to other considerations." Paul then started explaining more of his current research on communicable diseases and I became captivated by some of his ideas.

During our talk I recalled why Paul was one of my university friends, along with Isaac and a few others: his easy going upper class charm, ability to ignore stuffy social rules and reject enslavement to _propriety_ , untidy but endearing manner… and his intelligence. He was a well-educated and original thinker and after hearing about some of his research I thought he was more than capable of breakthrough achievements.

I also fondly recalled another side of him _._ I took the opportunity in the midst of our conversation to tease him about our collective arrest after swimming nude in the lake one summer between school sessions. "Paul, do you remember what an impression you had on the police? I thought I was going to drown in shame, but not you!" Paul was the only one to stand right up out of the water at Hanlon's Point, naked as he was born and hold a conversation with the constables who arrested us, just as if he was fully kitted out in a silk evening suit. He was completely at ease, unembarrassed, and his deportment caused the constables ultimately more distress than _they_ caused to _us_. For an hour or so talking with Paul in his laboratory, poking into the equipment closets bathed in electrical lighting (one side-benefit of the fire-no longer relying on kerosene lamps for illumination), I felt relaxed and forgot any of my recent unhappiness.

Paul asked Mr Norwood to box up the materials I was borrowing and bring them downstairs, while he called a carriage for me. His assistant had been hovering the whole while in the background, and I thought I recognized the particular breed of university student he was: omnipresent in the laboratory, he might even be living _sub rosa_ , or at least sleeping in, the University buildings because of his love for the science as well as lack of pocketbook. I speculated Mr Norwood, who was older than the usual student, was eking out his days until graduation or until he could catch the coattails of his mentor and be catapulted to greater things.

Working for Paul Du Maurier might prove to be worth the effort, I imagined, so I was surprised by the somewhat surly attitude Mr Norwood could not quite hide as he hauled the equipment for me. I had met other people who did not understand how good things were until they lost them, so I wasted no pity on him, and thanked him for his troubles.

Coming back to the morgue with several large boxes of apparatus, however, the good feeling I was enjoying faded… I reflected on Detective Murdoch's performance earlier today. He had looked up at me in the gallery to catch my eye just as I was leaving, seeming very proud of himself; I dare say he might have been showing off more than a bit, even looking for my approval. It crossed my mind, at least briefly, that he may have asked the inspector to invite me to be there to witness the encounter. I found it somewhat sadly amusing he needed Professor Godfrey's approval also.

 _Really,_ I thought, _I never noticed that unattractive competitive streak in him quite the same way before. He must have either been a joy or a terror to his Jesuit teachers and probably not well-liked by his school mates for needing to be the class know- it- all or worse: teacher's pet!_ I observed, somewhat uncharitably I suppose.

I could also not help but compare how he worked Mr Perry and Mr Gillies, to what he had tried to do to me and Isaac. I thought he was more than a little cruel, despite the abhorrent nature of the young men's crime and found myself conflicted, slightly sickened by it all. I reasoned that was _his_ version of doing what he thought he needed to do to obtain the outcome he wanted, not unlike Mr Gillies and Mr Perry. I saw uncomfortable parallels between the results-oriented students and the detective. That notion certainly reinforced my decision to part ways with him. After further reflection I also thought it interesting that, between Isaac and me, the detective thought Isaac was the weaker link….

 _Or,_ as small part of me wondered _, was it because Detective Murdoch's weakness was me?_

… _ **To Be Continued**_

.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 **Thursday September 17**

Detective Murdoch reappeared, _once again_ , at my desk very late the next day.

The apparatus I borrowed from Paul was working splendidly. The tissue sample was placed on a round glass base, and topped by a dome-shaped magnifying glass lid. The magnification was further increased by examining the whole thing through an additional lens, using reflected light against a white background. It was a way to look at larger samples than was possible with a conventional microscope. I wanted to finish the samples in series so my comparisons were fresh and as accurate as possible.

I was on my third of twenty specimens, disturbed by what I discovered, when he arrived. I initially did not hear his approach, as I was engrossed in my task, working my way through the analysis while the phonograph was playing. I found no interest in Gilbert and Sullivan as of late, but the silence in the morgue had been getting to me, so I tried some Debussy. It certainly much better-suited my current mood with some of Verlaine's words:

… _Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques._

 _Tout en chantant sur le mode mineur_ _  
_ _L'amour vainqueur et la vie opportune._ _  
_ _Ils n'ont pas l'air de croire à leur bonheur_ _  
_ _Et leur chanson se mêle au clair de lune..._

… _Sad beneath their fanciful disguises,_

 _All sing in a minor key_ _  
_ _Of victorious love and the opportune life._ _  
_ _They do not seem to believe in their happiness_ _  
_ _And their song mingles with the moonlight…._

I suspected that he would be back eventually so I was well-prepared. Detective Murdoch's excuse _this time_ was to thank me for agreeing to participate in the effort to identify Constable Crabtree's biological mother, and when I pointedly told him I was happy to have helped the  constable out, his face registered the distinction regarding whom I was pleased to have assisted; it was subtle but it was there and I was momentarily gratified to see my comment hit the bull's eye with the rebuff as I intended. _Good,_ I thought triumphantly, _he is getting the message…_

We chatted a bit about his case and the fate of Mr Gillies and Mr Perry. At least I did not have to put any energy into being bright or engaging around him anymore, which was a relief. I hoped that would be the end of it and then he proceeded to ask me to go to an exhibit with him, _of batteries_ of all things! It was beyond me what he thought he would accomplish.

I suppose it was also too much to ask for him to have been more sensitive to my feelings. I was becoming exasperated with him yet again. _For a smart man he is occasionally breathtakingly foolish or obtuse!_ I could not decide which at that moment, and firmly declined the invitation to focus on my work, wishing him a good day to terminate the interview.

Before our falling out, I might have asked him to render an opinion about the autopsy result that disconcerted me, but I did not want to encourage him, and besides it was Detective Phillip's case. I did not know how many more times I would have to refuse him for him to realize there was no way forward and no option for other than a professional, collegial relationship. What else, in good conscience, was open to us? I had hoped that was valuable enough for him to wish to retain, but he was making it exceedingly difficult.

He managed a polite, sideways smile before sliding a more neutral expression over his face and finally leaving. As I watched him walk stiffly away it was therefore unsettling that instead of the satisfaction or irritation I expected, I briefly felt …a little _lost._

At that moment I knew I needed to find a distraction or two for myself to keep my mind and my hours occupied outside of the coroner's office and firmly away from unnecessary and melancholic wool-gathering. I considered my options-why not start tonight? I checked the clock and looked at my samples. If I worked fast, I could meet up with Isaac later in the evening to hear a doctor from the States speak on childhood illnesses. Having decided on a course of action, I was able to set my emotions aside to proceed with my work. Before doing that however, I got up and took the needle off the record. _Perhaps silence is better,_ I thought.

That night I got home late and exhausted, thinking it was a good thing I borrowed the equipment from Paul because now I might have to revise one of my findings. I had a small sherry before bed and for the first time in a while, had no dreams.

# # #

 **Friday September 18**

The following afternoon Inspector Brackenreid sent Constable Higgins around with a copy of his precinct report. I flipped through it briefly and thanked him, as he made sure I knew that _he_ was the one who was responsible for the typed copy. I noticed the report included not only Stations No. 4's areas, but the other ones as well, and complimented Constable Higgins on the fine (and fast) work.

"You're welcome, doctor. I found it interesting, actually. No wonder Inspector Brackenreid is so puffed up by the report—our precinct has been having the best overall clearance and conviction rates but now also has had the sharpest drop in murders over the last three months. Not sure what we have been doing differently, but it's no matter to me! The inspector is giving us all a pint at the pub on Saturday night…His treat mind you, as a reward." The constable smiled in anticipation.

I noticed he was also listening to the record I had put on to accompany my luncheon, so we conversed for a moment about the sonata playing on the phonograph. He was familiar with the piece because his family's business revolved around pianos and music. I always found some small connection with each of the men I worked with if I could, or used humor, to settle the uneasiness most of them felt around the dead, and for young Henry it was music… _Well… and girls! Henry had quite the eye for the fairer sex,_ I knew.

He then fell to mock-complaining about his workmate. "I tried to get Constable Crabtree to take a photograph of the pages and print you copies, but he told me that would not be legible enough, so typing would have to do. He tried to tell me that my type-writing was so much better than his…I think he was trying to shine me on like that Tom Sawyer fella' in that book," he said with a grimace.

I thought young Higgins was usually pretty perceptive. "Huckleberry Finn?" I asked.

"That's the one. It's all right, doctor, I do type-write better than he does, I just never let anyone know about it—er... Except you now…" He smiled.

I smiled back. "Your secret is safe with me, Henry….But you know, having a way to easily make a likeness of a document…sounds intriguing, doesn't it?"

"It is actually George's idea, doctor. One of his flights of fancy I assume. He's pretty creative, but don't say I told you so, he can go on about things…" He winked at me to share the humor.

We were interrupted by Detective Phillips, whom I had called the day before to discuss one of his cases. He presented himself and stated abruptly: "Doctor, I am here. What did you want to show me?"

Constable Higgins shrugged and picked up his helmet and put it back on. "I must be getting back. Good day, doctor."

I stated my appreciation for the report again and set it with my other reading, before turning to the detective. I motioned him to my magnifier and getting the tissue sample out from the cooler and placing it in the glass magnifier. I brought out an autopsy report and laid it next to the apparatus.

"Thank you for coming. I wanted to show you this. Do you remember the red-haired drowning victim, Daniel Murphy, who was brought in a week ago?" I asked.

"What of him?" he frowned. "I thought that case was taken care of, an accident."

"Well, I have now completed my findings and thought you'd like to know I have revised my conclusions. I don't think it was accidental. See here? I found additional marks on his body, not consistent with rope or net marks approximating the size and shape of an oar tip which would suggest he was pushed away from a boat or other safe haven rather than be rescued. I found a small sliver of wood in one mark."

"You mapped all those marks?" He peered at the form. "How can you tell the difference?"

I let that rather insulting remark pass. I asked him to sit and look through the lens. "What am I looking at, Doctor?"

"It is a tissue sample from the young man's arm. See the torn fibres and bruising? That indicates that he tried to save himself, kept swimming and swimming until he was finally exhausted. This was someone who _could_ swim, and another look at the body confirms he certainly had the physique for someone who could swim."

"What does this prove?" he asked, seeming irritated, but he was at least now paying proper attention.

"It certainly suggests foul play, detective, not an accident. I speculate someone took him out away from shore, dumped him in the water and then waited until he drowned. I also examined the fluid in his lungs. It has none of the characteristics of someone who drowned close to shore, in the harbor or canal for instance. I found other indicators that it was unlikely he really went in the water off a fishing boat or that he drowned quickly."

To his credit, Detective Phillips finally brought out his notebook and then asked me to repeat everything I just told him and then asked to look at the body, which I had retained in the morgue.

When I was satisfied he understood the evidence and agree to look into it further, including confirming that young Mr Murphy could swim, I got back to the business of sorting the results of the rest of my tissue samples. Work was piling up and I hoped it would be enough to keep me from ruminating, and if not, I could revisit my recollection of the soiree I attend with Isaac the previous evening.

I did enjoy myself, and was pleased I was not the only woman there, for once. The talk was by Dr Luther Emmett Holt on diseases of childhood and it seemed the University had lured him to come across from Rochester where he was visiting relatives, to give a short presentation. I think they were trying to court him to come and teach, so they brought out all the stops to woo him, including a programme of dinners, and meeting what passed for the _intelligentsia_ of Toronto and its environs. I quite savored conversing with the other three ladies (two well-educated faculty wives and Miss Mary Agnes Snivley, Toronto Hospital Superintendent of Nurses) as well. Most of my work and social relations are male and acquaintances of my gender are often put off by my interests, so finding _sympathetic_ females was a real treat.

Paul was there, of course, as well as other University colleagues, some of whom were more receptive to me as a physician than others. There were even a few doctors from Buffalo who came up by train with whom I scraped an acquaintance, because you never know from whence opportunities arise. It was all together exhilarating to relish the stimulation that had been missing from my life for a while.

While I worked in the quiet of the morgue, my mind travelled again to Paul's performance the night before. His conversation shone as he shared his research, currently on diphtheria, which so devastatingly affects children. He was definitely trying to get Dr Holt to consider Toronto by winning him over with the possibilities for research. I had never heard him expound quite like this before, and he and Dr Holt dominated the discourse. Isaac teased me that I was developing a decidedly non-academic interest in Paul, reminding me that I had found Paul intriguing when we were fellow students. _It might have been better for me if I_ had _taken up with Paul,_ I thought, _and perhaps could have avoided so much pain and unpleasantness_ …

While I watched this unfold, I remembered meeting Paul for the first time at school and the process of getting to know each other. We discovered we had much in common: both of us possessed a tendency to reject certain standards of conventionality. Our fathers disapproved of us pursuing a medical degree and each of us went to school anyway, against our fathers' wishes. In Paul's case, his father viewed medicine as too close to having a trade and therefore not fitting to the class in which he was born and raised. My father's views on women and medicine were and are a sore spot for me still. Both of us had mothers who passed away and difficult or ambivalent relations with our siblings.

Paul took _his_ father's disapproval as a challenge, _as did I_ , and that cemented a kind of bond between us before the end of the first term at school. Despite moving across an ocean to get away from home, Paul never stopped trying to show his father that he was going to make something of himself, and was quite competitive with his stated ambition, first articulated at school moreover, which was no less than an international prize! I suppose I have reacted to my father's cold disapproval by distancing myself from him as well and I was aware of a somewhat similar pull within me to prove something to my own father… but I at least had no such lofty goals.

I realized that all day long I had been replaying my impressions of Paul to myself. Hearing his brilliance and seeing his mental powers on full display, reminded me how interesting I found him when first we met. Woefully, I could not help but compare him to Detective Murdoch…quite favorably at the present.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

 **Sunday September 21**

The early Fall was glorious—clear blue skies, maple leaves just beginning to turn vibrant red and orange and starting to scatter on the grass, already exhibiting a satisfying crunch when trod upon. And since I was making a habit of expanding my horizons, I made sure to brush through them on my daily walk and feel the acorns that were dropping from the oaks in the grass beneath my feet. The lovely black squirrels were delighted. As the days were also still occasionally very warm and bright, I also took the opportunity to go outside on my lunch-break to the promenade to catch up on my reading in the natural light. It was there that I finally perused the inspector's report. As he said, the murder rate appeared to be decreased in Station House No. 4's precinct month- to-month as well as year- over- year, but the overall murder and assault rates were steady or climbing for the city as a whole and definitely spiking up a bit in the surrounding precincts.

My forte was not statistics but at the time I was merely curious about it and not inclined to dig any further, although I thought I might put my mind to it if I had nothing better to do. I was familiar with statistics and how easily misconstrued they often are. And I was certainly not inclined to ask for any help from other quarters… When I caught myself day-dreaming again I was very glad no one could witness it.

 **September 21-28**

The next week or so passed uneventfully for me. In the wider world, Queen Victoria surpassed her grandfather George III as the longest reigning British monarch and Kitchener occupied part of the Sudan; these events were preeminent in most people's minds. The autumnal equinox, with day and night in balance, came and went. However, Detective Murdoch and I were still had no opportunity for finding a new balance, as we had no common cases with which to address our friction. I was finding myself to be hopeful that something could be salvaged…. And at least he seemed to respect my request to keep whatever our relationship was, _professional._ There were some rather routine deaths that I attended to, and I was called out on two occasions in the middle of the night when a body was found. I even complained to Isaac over dinner one evening that "uneventful" seemed boring to me and I asked if he could arrange for me to visit one of the University health clinics. His face lit up with the idea that I might change careers, although I was not contemplating that, or at least not quite yet.

The previous Thursday and Friday I presented two days of testimony in court and expected to see Detective Murdoch there. But we were not called to the witness box on the same day and had no occasion to compare notes. I was mindful of the idea that I could have been biased towards his cases in the past; fortunately I had no such worries anymore and approached my legal responsibilities with a clear conscience, and came away with a conviction of manslaughter that exactly matched my own findings and opinion. It felt rather liberating for some reason.

Later that same Friday I was examining an unusual stab wound and trying to determine exactly what sort of weapon made it. The wound-track was rounded and only the slightest bit curved, approximately three or three and a half inches deep. It appeared the blade was swept back and forth within the body before being removed, creating more havoc, puncturing an artery on the way. I was trying to picture what hilt would have left the small bruise, and was comparing the wound to my collection of knives, metal tools, and other instruments of mayhem, when Constable Crabtree approached me rather noisily from the bay door dragging a scuffling child with him.

"Doctor, do you think you could look at young Freddie here?" he asked, with a handful of coat collar firmly in his grasp, and a boy about eight years old swallowed inside the over-large and filthy-looking garment.

"One moment constable," I said. I put my instruments down, covered the body and scrubbed the blood off my hands to greet him and the boy he had in tow. Freddie was looking wide-eyed and rather intrigued by the corpse I just covered up to spare his young sensibilities.

I needn't have bothered. "Oy! Who's the stiff? An' can I see 'im naked?" Freddie popped off. "I seen dead people afore, lots of 'em. Do-na scare me in the least. They's just meat now, innit right?" He offered a gap-toothed smile while trying to squirm loose from the constable's grasp.

"Freddie! Now that's enough of that. This here is Dr Ogden and she's going to see to that nasty infection you have so behave!" Shaking the coat collar like he was wrestling with a cat, Constable Crabtree grabbed the boy back from lunging towards the gurney.

"There ain't no such thing as a lady doctor and this ain't no doctor office. Whacha try'in t'do? Trick me?" the boy hissed, and then looked around and a little fear stole into his face and his voice rose considerably. "Hey! I di'nt sign up for this…an' if I did you di'nt pay me."

I intervened before he could start caterwauling more. "Freddie! Stop that! I will look at you if you want or you can leave right now. Do you want to show me your injury or not?" I used my most steady, steely-eyed stare and what I thought of as my "doctor voice" - the one I usually reserve for arrogant, misogynistic, barristers. It had a similar effect on the boy: he shut his mouth and looked at me with a little shock on his face, but stifled his complaints….at least for the moment.

The constable kept a fist on the boy's clothing but pushed him forward towards me and Freddie raised his trouser leg. Underneath some dirty bandages there was indeed an enflamed wound on his leg, about one and a half inches in diameter and as much as quarter inch deep or more in the center. Freddie's poor hygiene and what looked like an attempt at a folk-remedy of packing the area with a poultice of leaves only made matters worse. There were some red streaks rising on the leg. _Nasty indeed,_ I thought. I was surprised the boy did not display more pain, but I thought that he was perhaps being given opium or laudanum, or even alcohol to help with that, now that I saw his eyes more closely. "Freddie, your wound is already infected and needs to be cleaned and treated …or you might lose your leg," I added when he seemed to protest again. "I think you need to be in hospital. This is somewhat more than I am comfortable treating."

The lad just struggled more to escape. "This ain't nothin' and I ain't goin' to no bleeding hospital or clinic—that's where people get sicker or go to die." I could see some calculation or other pass over his face, when like a flash he slipped out of the coat and darted for the nearest door, moving very fast despite a pronounced limp. Constable Crabtree stood stock still with an empty coat in the air for a moment and then made to go after the boy when I stopped him.

"Where did you find him?" I inquired.

"His brother brought him 'round to me. I suspect he is going back to where ever they live. The brother will beat him for losing the coat, I imagine, and for costing him a favor for the police, but I can find him again if I have to. Does the boy really have to go to hospital? That's not something they can afford to do…"

"Yes. He really has to go. I wish I had been able to study the wound more closely. I don't like the look of it and there was something else odd about it, aside from how it was being tended to. Find the brother and tell him at least to go to one of the free clinics. Maybe they can see to him, but he really does need to be treated and the sooner the better." I hoped I was making my point clear, and it seemed I was. The constable had a grim look on his face and thanked me for my troubles and turned to leave. "And constable, burn that coat, it is a disease-ridden article in the extreme. I have been vaccinated against all manner of diseases-you have not." He nodded grimly and left.

I went back to my box of assorted deadly weapons, humming a little Gilbert and Sullivan.

# # #


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 **Wednesday September** **30**

When I got home the night before I found I had received a packet of letters from my sister Ruby, off on another one of her adventures, and spent a pleasant evening reading them, absorbed in her travelogue. I chose not to respond to any of them because by the time I did she would no longer be reachable. Besides, her letters inevitably asked about work and at least tangentially about my love life, about which I was disinclined to share, mostly because I had no idea what I would have said anyway. My correspondence with Ruby was usually dry and even to my eye, rather boring, especially in comparison to whatever it was she was up to. I was determined not to write back until I had something exciting to write about!

On our next case together, Detective Murdoch was as correct in his deportment as ever, very serious and closed-mouthed. He apparently took my message to heart and presented only his most professional self, and I must say it was a respite to me. He focused the conversation only on the evidence with a crisp "Doctor, what are your results?" followed by an even crisper "Thank you. Please send your formal report when you have completed it," after he heard my preliminary conclusions. Seventeen words from him. _Might be a recent record,_ I thought.

I was settling back into having another normal day of work. My role was to speak for the dead, or at least to the hour of their death and develop evidence to determine exactly what happened to the victims in their final moments. I found the rhythm of the procedures soothing at times and certainly enjoyed being in charge of my own department and overall thought I was adjusting remarkably well to my new circumstances. I even took myself to task for the uncharacteristic emotionality I had been experiencing—quite unlike my usual manner. I calculated it was merely an aberration and unlikely to be repeated.

I was having quite a bit more of a social life than I had had in some time. I was back to the archery range again and I signed up to attend an evening presentation later that night regarding female Dare-Devils, if you can imagine. _At least I would have something interesting to relate to Ruby,_ I thought.

I checked my pendant watch and a gathered my things so I would be finished on time for the presentation. I was anticipating it would be entertaining and I experienced only a small amount of trepidation that somehow my sister Ruby's name would be introduced to the evening. I shudder sometimes at what she gets herself into and on more than one occasion her more notorious adventures have wound up in the Toronto papers. On the other hand, it was time I took more I risks in my own life. I decided I had gotten into stale habits, and that my life needed shaking up.

The meeting was a roaring success with the fervor of a church revival, or at least what I imagined a church revival to have been, back in the _burned-over_ times. The speaker, a Mrs Mary Emma Manning from the States, was inspirational: " _And let any normally healthy woman who is ordinarily strong screw up her courage and tackle a bucking bronco, and she will find the most fascinating pastime in the field of feminine athletic endeavor. There is nothing to compare, to increase the joy of living, and once accomplished, she'll have more real fun than any pink tea or theater party or ballroom ever yielded_."

The audience of forty or so ladies erupted in less- than- ladylike applause when Mrs Manning finished her speech. I felt quite reinvigorated by it all. During the post-speaker tea, I fell in with two of the ladies I met at Dr Holt's soiree, Miss Snivley and Mrs Birch, and we tossed ideas about how to expand our own minds and experiences as well as make strides towards the female gender's abilities to be brave and take risks. If George A. Samuelsson could row across the Atlantic from New York to England, why not a woman? Why should we not try new things usually reserved for men! The three of us settled first on going to see a ballooning demonstration the following Sunday, and we made a short list of other possible adventures or daring and outrageous acts. We even considered female admission to the medical school and suffrage as the inevitable result of female progress. _And no one mentioned Ruby once!_

# # #

 **October 1 – 9**

Going to work was almost fun again… perhaps due to my rather morbid sense of humor. I had Inspector Brackenreid in my sights lately to see if I could get a rise out of him with some of my witticisms—so far no success. But anyway, as a result of feeling more positive about my professional situation, I was less inclined to be persuaded to leave my chosen work for some other branch of medicine, despite being importuned at every turn by Isaac and the small circle of colleagues with whom I was most recently associating. But it _was_ flattering after all to be sought after and did additionally boost my frame of mind. Ever curious, I still made plans to visit one of the university clinics at my first opportunity just to see for myself what they were about.

The Sunday weather cooperated and the tethered-balloon exposition drew a respectable crowd. Miss Snivley and Mrs Birch and I spent the whole afternoon picnicking and watching the balloon be set up and inflated, so when the owner asked for a volunteer to soar in it with him, I stepped up immediately! The ballooning demonstration was utterly magical. I cannot explain how thrilling it felt to rise so slowly and quietly to the apogee of the rope. The view was marvelous a thousand feet up in the cold clear air, three hundred sixty degrees of sight. I imagined I could see Rochester across the lake and the mist from Niagara Falls. The owner explained about the history of the balloons and what he had in mind about popularizing it as a sport, and I was instantly eager to be his first student.

It was over all too soon. But by the time we were on the ground again I had convinced Mr Poundsett I was up to the challenge and we agreed I would take lessons from him over the next several weeks assuming good weather and the proper prevailing winds, starting with understanding weather patterns from the observation station at the Toronto School of Science. (I certainly did not want to end up over Lake Ontario!) I also decided I would not share this with anyone else quite yet. I wanted to have the experience of telling Ruby what I had done as a _fait accompli._ I also reckoned it might get a notice in the papers I could send to her… I charged myself with anticipating some gloating, but at that moment did not care one jot!

My mood lightened even more through the next case associated with Station House No. 4. I knew that my working relationship with Detective Murdoch was back on track as we worked especially well together, facing that odious Terrance Meyers, literally shoulder to shoulder, sharing unspoken common cause, and communicating with only a glance. I found myself no longer dreading his intrusions, even though that usually meant some poor soul lost his (or her) life.

In my more contemplative moments I did wonder a bit if my good mood might have been _because_ of the re-normalization between the detective and I, but was able to dismiss that on the grounds…well, on the grounds that my good mood started _before_ he came to his senses.

I was even relenting somewhat in my personal feelings towards the detective… perhaps absence does not make the heart grow fonder as the cliché suggests, but certainly my anger towards him had dissipated substantially for one reason or another, even though I saw him less.

Which was why I was so puzzled that I felt something was unaccountably _missing_ from my life and I had no idea what that was. I really did have so much more going on!

At first I thought it was some sort of longing, for children or a family even, set off by recent events that brought up my abortion, or even worry about a missing boy, one Alwyn Jones. My heart went out to the poor distraught mother, of course, but what was remarkable was how Detective Murdoch focused on regaining young Master Jones. I had never really seen him upset like that before, although to be fair he was unlikely to disclose such things to me.

I tried to offer the detective encouragement that he would find the boy, but I also managed to inadvertently slip and call him by his Christian name in the process; fortunately he did not seem to notice, as I think his sole focus was the welfare of the lad. I had quite forgotten this compassionate side of him while I had been so cross with him. In fact, it was slowly dawning on me that I was not angry with him at all anymore and that he in turn seemed content in my company.

And, I thought, _I may have caught him watching me once, or perhaps lingering to smell the sandalwood oil I had applied behind my ears one morning._ But I was not prepared for the alteration in my feelings that slammed into me after the next case was completed.

# # #


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

 **Saturday October 10**

I came into the Station House to catch up with Inspector Brackenreid about another matter, but decided to first visit the detective in his office, (somewhere I had not been since, well, since I rushed over to see him the day after our "date"), to talk over the case. He was behind his desk speaking with the inspector when I entered, and I noticed a book he left lying on his worktable.

" **I heard there was an automaton. How fantastic!"** I said to the gentlemen as brightly as I could.

The inspector answered, a bit sadly I thought, with his hands in his pockets: **"It was all a bit anti-climactic in the end, I'm afraid."**

" **Really?"** I responded **. "I'd love to hear all about it."** I picked up the adventure book, _Steam Men of the Plains_ by Frank Reade, and examined it, as I was enthusiastic about adventures lately and thought I wanted to tell the detective about the ballooning demonstration. I counted it amusing that a book like this was among his usual clutter of experimental detritus, and I had never known the detective to read a novel of any kind (although I supposed he must have had at some point), let alone penny-dreadful or low-brow fiction. So I said, **"William, I see this case has inspired you to start reading about steam men…"** as a way to stimulate a laugh or at least a conversation.

He responded a bit clumsily before shuttering his face in a way I had come to know so well and entering that ever-neutral and ever-polite mode of his. I considered that I may have made an error in using his name so familiarly and around his superior, considering he had confined himself to my honorific for weeks now. **"It's a gift for a friend,"** was all he said as he retrieved it from my hands. **"I have somewhere I need to be. I'm sure the inspector can give you all the details…"** he trailed off, as I stood there, probably gawping at him in an inelegant fashion.

I finally managed to say **"Of course…"** as he said good evening and retrieved his hat and walked out, leaving me and the inspector in his office, staring at his retreating back.

The inspector eyed me and said, **"Perhaps a wee nip of Scotch would be in order, doctor?"**

I was still quite flummoxed. _What was going on with me…with him?_ I wondered. I tried to work the expression off my face, without any success if I were to judge by the look the inspector was giving me. With effort I refocused and told him, **"Perhaps…"**

The inspector motioned to me with his head to follow him through the other door, past the twin desks that separated his office from the detective's, and over into his own office. He offered me a seat in his black leather settee while going to the side board on the opposite wall and filling two tumblers with a small splash of Scotch from his decanter. Handing me my glass he offered, "Cheers!" and started drinking his.

I stared at the liquor for a moment and then absently drank it down. The inspector's eyes widened a bit but he politely brought the decanter over and set it on his desk after refilling my glass. I smiled in thanks, and embarrassment I suppose, before asking him how the case went.

"Turns out that your midget, er… dwarf," he motioned this time in the direction of the morgue, "was inside the bloody doomsday machine…the big silver knight or tin man that Alwyn Jones saw out in the woods by the river. Mr Meyers," Inspector Brackenreid grunted his name, "has wrapped it all up in a cloak of secrecy and national security again. I am not sure who to believe, but essentially the whole thing was a hoax of some kind. Murdoch had me worried again with this one…." He stopped himself from explaining any more, and slid his eyes briefly towards me.

"I see. And the boy?" I inquired.

"That's the fantastic part, actually. Seems Master Jones took it in his head to follow up on locating the machine and got himself locked up with it. The boy managed to get inside it and to get the thing working and was trying to bring it to Murdoch, if you can believe that! Pretty clever of the lad, if I do say so, although it nearly drove his widowed-mother mad with worry." Inspector Brackenreid looked like he admired the boy and was not the least perturbed at this moment about all the fuss his disappearance caused.

"So the book is for Alwyn Jones, do you think, Inspector?" I offered, interested now in the fact that Mrs Jones was not married….

"Aye, I think so. Murdoch literally did not rest the whole time the lad was gone. Didn't go home, not sure he ate. He's always been that way about children, long as I've known him." He looked at me and refilled his own drink. "Did I ever tell you, doctor, about the time my eldest son ran away?"

I was surprised at the offer to disclose personal information with me, and was intrigued. "No. What happened?" I asked.

"T'was right after Bobby was born. My God what blazing hot weather that was! Mrs Brackenreid had a hard time of it with Bobby. And John, who was not quite six, got pretty jealous at all the attention the new baby got. He was whiney and cranky and when that did not work to get what he wanted, it seems he decided to run away after having a temper tantrum with his mum. So here I was at work and I get this frantic message brought in by my neighbor that my son is missing. Of course there was no telephone at my house back then," he said as an aside. "At first I thought it was just his mother overreacting, you know, that he was just hiding somewhere in the house or the yard and that he'd come out when he was good and hungry." The inspector's face darkened. "Of course, when I got home and John was nowhere to be found I was worried and Margaret, er.., Mrs Brackenreid…well she was fit to be tied and damn angry with me for not taking her more seriously." He leaned over. "Sorry for the language, doctor."

I smiled at him to show I was not offended, and nodded to him to continue. I thought about Inspector Brackenreid's sons and wife and how fond I was of them, and imagined quite clearly how upset everyone would be if something happened to one of them. And how angry Mrs Brackenreid would have been under the circumstances.

"Well, all the neighbors were helping out and I even called in a favor from one of the men here, and I truly thought we'd have him home by nightfall. But he was nowhere, and by that time I was pretty frantic myself and asked for more help from the Station's men to conduct a missing-persons search. I assigned the lads certain areas to canvass and report back to me. Murdoch, who wasn't even a full detective yet, showed up at my door, unannounced, introduced himself to my wife and asked if he could see John's room. Well, she was puzzled by it but let him do so. He was up there about twenty minutes and then left without saying a word." The inspector rolled his eyes. "I was pissed off when I heard about it because I wanted him to take his place in a systematic search, and there he was going off all random-like, against my express orders."

"Did he?" I was surprised.

"Chuffin'-hell he did!" He snorted. "He disappeared and was gone all night. So now I was missing my son _and_ him!" Strangely, the inspector smiled then. "Good thing too. Because then he turns up about nine the next morning, coming up the front walk easy as you please, hand in hand with young John, chattering away with my son like they were old friends…" He chuckled. "I could not decide if I was angrier at my son for worrying his mother and me, or happy he was back."

"How and where did he find John?" I was very curious how William figured it out.

"It was like he does a lot of things, doctor. He noticed what John likely took with him and what he was interested in by surveying his room. You know, in his cupboard and at the pictures and little treasures he collected and so on. Then Murdoch went looking for him in all those places that my little boy would imagine going, considering how long he'd been gone." The inspector's gaze lost focus for a minute, recollecting the memory before coming back to me.

"Murdoch checked several likely locations he thought John could have been, and eventually found him all the way over by the Don River, looking for fossils of all things. _Mesozoic_ or some such. How he got there I still don't quite know. I had taken him there just the month before – our first fishing expedition, and he was quite a bit more interested in picking up pebbles than putting a worm on the hook. He was curled up under a willow tree with a sack and his toy soldiers, fast asleep. Murdoch recognized some of the fossils and stones John collected up in his room and knew the general areas they could have come from… " He shook his head, smiling.

"Of course he did," I could not help saying aloud, and the inspector laughed right along with me.

"John said he thought if he brought home a dinosaur we'd love him again…" At this the inspector choked up and took a last swallow of his drink to cover his embarrassment for showing that emotion in front of me. "Anyways, Johnny stands ramrod straight, looks me straight in the eye and then says, very seriously and formally you understand, that he is apologizing for worrying me and his mother and that he will never do so again, and will go straight to his room and stay there a whole day as punishment. Ah, I nearly laughed at him it was so comical. You _know_ Murdoch must have coached him to say exactly that and in exactly that way… He repeated it to the wife also, who then burst into tears and kind-a ruined the effect you see…ah-hem… And true to his word, John never tried that stunt again."

He put a little more in each of our glasses and sat on the corner of his desk, blue eyes sparking a bit. "That was the first time I started to understand Murdoch's process for figuring things out, not that I always get his reasoning. But I never would have imagined he had a way with children, doesn't seem the type at least on the surface, you know what I mean?" he asked, and then cleared his throat. "Anyways, Mrs Brackenreid has had a soft spot for Murdoch ever since, getting him to come to dinner and the like."

I recognized that "soft spot" as I had one of my own that was reemerging rather powerfully at the moment. I saw the inspector straighten and then go around to sit behind his desk, signaling a shift in the conversation.

"Doctor, if I may, there is no problem with you and Detective Murdoch that I need to know about, is there? Nothing that would adversely affect your working on his cases…." He looked at me meaningfully.

 _Oh dear!_ I sighed and averted my eyes, and felt my heart unaccountably pounding. _Was I that transparent?... Was William?_ I recalled some complaints about his detective being less focused as of late….I suppose I blushed a little. "No, Inspector. None of which I am aware." I tried to hide my reaction behind a cough and smoothing my skirts.

"Good! Glad we got that straightened out. Now, doctor, you had some questions about the precinct reports."

"Yes, quite." I said with somewhat forced concentration. It seemed the topic of Detective Murdoch was closed before I could ask a little more about Mrs Jones…

"I have read your report, inspector. By the way, please thank Constable Higgins again for copying it. I wondered…Is it possible for someone to skew the numbers in the precinct report? Manipulate them somehow?" I asked.

He frowned. "I suppose so, but how would they do that and why do that? Other than bragging rights, nothing much changes as a result of the reports."

I absorbed that as I bid him thanks for the drink and went about my business.

… _ **To Be Continued**_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

 **Sunday October 11**

"Constable! Where is that wagon going, and leaving this body on the ground behind?" I had been called on to many a murder scene, but unless there were very large number of victims, I had never seen the morgue wagon just take off like that, and at such a clip. I was quite annoyed and wondered what was going on, but as I had spent a lovely Sunday afternoon learning about aeronautics, that tempered my annoyance. "Who is the detective on site? I must speak with him," I said to the officer in attendance, as I bent over the body to examine a very large stab wound on the male victim's neck.

"Doctor," said the young man, who I now recognized as Constable Evans when he held his lantern up. Evans was called out frequently at night as he only lives five or six minutes from the Station House. "It's Detective Murdoch…"

"Well, yes I assume it is now that I see you are from Station House four. Were there other bodies? Is another wagon needed and on its way? It would be unusual for Detective Murdoch to allow a body to be disturbed before I could examine it _in situ._ I see this man was probably killed elsewhere…" I grabbed his lantern to see more clearly.

"Doctor, no I mean it's Detective Murdoch. He's in the wagon on the way to hospital…"

I cut him off in surprise. "There was a surviving victim? Well I suppose if that was the only way to interview him or that was the quickest way to get them there…" I noticed that Evan's usually open face was showing considerable distress as he interrupted me again, coming closer and taking his helmet off, ruffling his dark cap of hair.

"Doctor. No, I mean Detective Murdoch was injured, ma'am, and we put him in the wagon to get him to hospital as soon as possible. Constables Worsely & Crabtree went with him." He looked at me and then away. "It's pretty bad. He's unconscious and all torn up. We took a while getting him off the roof…" he stopped talking when I stood abruptly.

"The _roof_?" I was startled. "Constable Evans, tell me exactly what happened and how long ago."

I took in the facts as he knew them, locking myself into a professional attitude to quell my distress. When he was finished I was momentarily at a loss but forced myself to complete the necessary on-scene observations before ordering him to stay with the body. "I will make sure another wagon will be along for you and the body," I said, and then got back in my hansom and asked to be taken to the Toronto Hospital as fast as possible. My heart raced along with the horse through empty streets. _Oh my god,_ _William_ _._ _If only I had gotten there sooner!_ For the first time in a _very_ long while, I prayed to whomever or whatever I thought would intercede on his behalf.

Getting _to_ the hospital was the easy part. Gaining permission to see the detective was more problematic as I had no admitting privileges, so I just told them I was his private physician and was going to oversee his care, hoping that would be enough. The old wretch on night duty, (to call him a physician was too charitable), was having none of it, and glared at me. "Young lady, no _gentleman_ would ever conceive of having a female physician. It's just not properly done, and will not be done in this hospital if I have anything to say about it. And if you _are_ a doctor," he eyed me like a housewife searching out bad fish at the market, "you have no business tending to anyone but other women and children!" He dismissed me by snapping his log book shut with a thump.

I almost stamped my foot and uttered a "Well I _never_!" while really wanting to throttle him, but good sense and good breeding stopped me. Finally after what seemed to be an interminable amount of time an even older orderly who knew me, grabbed me and snuck me past him to the upstairs ward. "Thank you, Mr Ashland. I appreciate the help," I told him as we walked.

"My pleasure, Dr Julia. I knew your father when he was on staff here, knew you as a child too, if you remember? It's a good thing I didn't tell old "Yorkie" what you really do now…he would want to know why you wanted a live one!" Mr Ashland brought me to the ward door and then bowed off.

William was in the closest bed, with an orderly by his side. "I am Doctor Ogden. You are…?" I introduced myself as I gave an educated eye to cataloguing William's visible injuries.

"My name is Linwood, ma'am. The patient has been sleeping since he got up here…" he whispered, and checked his watch in the dim light, "about fifteen minutes ago. He was mostly awake when he got to the hospital, but not quite fully aware, so the doctor did not want to give him anything for pain because of the concussion. Oh, there is no written chart up here yet," he said as I searched for a clipboard at the end of the bed.

"Does he have other flesh wounds besides the arm and head?" I returned to William to put my hand on his forehead and noticed it was cool, as the orderly ran down the collection of injuries. "No spinal injury? I understand it was a significant fall."

"None that was noted. I am supposed to wake him up every half hour to check on his head and his eyes." I nodded in approval at the treatment plan, and felt my anxiety lift a little, allowing my first real breath since I left the crime scene. "Does he have family to notify? A wife perhaps?" the orderly asked.

"No. No family, but there are people who will want to know." I looked again at him just to reassure myself his chest was going up and down easily. "I have to make a telephone call and then I will be back." The list of injuries was substantial, but assuming he avoided infection and there was no brain bleed he would live and recover fully. Not so his suit, I suspected. I wondered what he would be most upset about—his injuries or his jacket and the trousers that were probably cut off of him. I could not suppress a grin-I suspected the suit would bother him more.

Downstairs, instead of a telephone, I found Constables Crabtree and Worsley pestering the admission desk for information and to be allowed in to see their Detective. "Gentlemen!" I called over to them.

"Doctor Ogden, thank God! How is he? They won't tell us anything or let us see him—not since we brought him in." Constable Crabtree looked rumpled, with dirt and creases on his trousers and his companion's red hair and beard stuck out at all angles from where he worried at them.

"He's resting comfortably and will be watched over tonight." To reduce the tension, I tried to joke with them. "I think he will be bored and bossing people about their jobs in no time." Both men chuckled and visibly relaxed, even when I went on to explain the extent of his injuries, because they had facts to work with instead of morbid imagination. "I will be staying too, at least until morning. Now, I left Constable Evans at the crime scene and told him there would be another wagon come by and fetch the body to the morgue. Would one of you gentlemen see to that? And then call the inspector and give him the update. Detective Murdoch is going to be out of commission at least two or three weeks this time I think, perhaps more."

"Is there anything else we can do, doctor?" asked the older officer.

"It would also be a kindness to tell his landlady, Mrs Kitchen, about what has happened, but don't worry her unnecessarily. Knowing the detective, he will want to go home tomorrow…" All three of us smiled at that. "And George," I called him over, "you did very well in getting him properly to the hospital."

"We did our best. The inspector and Detective Murdoch once demonstrated stabilizing a man's spine in case we were ever called into a scene and needed to do that. Something the inspector learned in the military, I believe. Probably never thought we'd need it that way…" He nodded and made to leave, hesitated and came back, speaking is a low whisper. "Doctor, in the wagon, when he sort of came around, he asked for you…. I just thought you'd like to know." He gave a lopsided grin then. "And if you see him, tell him I have his hat!" He touched his helmet, slapped his companion on the back and headed off. I stood there, frowning, unable to respond further. _He asked for me…?_ I wondered.

I headed up to the ward for a long night of thinking while keeping William company. He slept peacefully, responding when he was roused but going back to sleep readily enough. He seemed to recognize I was there each time he woke, but other than a one-time and faint "Julia" he said nothing. I, on the other hand, was bursting with words I had no way of expressing. The lightness I felt earlier today had vanished. The idea that he easily could have been on a gurney in my morgue rather than in hospital _turned_ something inside me that I could not or would not name, so I contented myself with finishing my notes from the evening's crime scene and dozing when I could. He was still sleeping when I left his bedside to talk with the admitting doctor who was making early morning rounds. I then went home to refresh myself before going to do the autopsy waiting for me. I thought, with some irony, that Detective Murdoch would have been annoyed that the post mortem for one of his cases would have gotten delayed for any reason.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

 **Monday October 12**

It surprised no one William was released from hospital the following day at his instance, taken home by no less than the inspector himself and settled in his room at his boarding house. I presented myself to his landlady in the late afternoon on my way back from yet another crime scene. I had hoped to be able to tell him something about the case he had been working on when he fell, but a new set of deaths occupied my morning after all, preventing me from starting on any more than the external examination.

"Mrs Kitchen? Good day. I am Dr Ogden. I am here to check on my patient," I tried my most winning smile on her. "May I come in and see Detective Murdoch?"

She looked wide-eyed and distraught. Greeting me with some skepticism, she gave me an appraising gaze that I was not quite sure how to interpret. "So y _ou_ are Dr Ogden?" When I nodded she continued. "Father Faire just left here a few minutes ago…" She saw my face change abruptly with fear and she understood that I assumed he somehow took a turn for the worse and asked for his priest for Last Rights. She managed a wan smile and reached out to calm me. "Mr Murdoch, bless him, is probably asleep again I think. But he had a rough morning…. probably should have stayed in hospital…" She faltered and then said, "I'm sorry, I am forgetting myself. Please come in." She opened the door wider and asked me into the front hallway and then through the double doors into the parlour and invited me to sit.

I was impatient to see William, so decided to stand instead. "Mrs Kitchen, I really need to see to the detective, especially if he's had as difficult a morning as you said." This time I tried a more professional approach and that seemed to get her to rethink her resistance.

"I don't know about that. I'm sure you understand….Mr Murdoch is a very private person…" She twisted her apron and looked at me to take my measure, probably thinking the same as that old fossil at the hospital—a female doctor should not treat a male patient. Additionally I wondered what William might have said about me, if anything, over the years. Her concern for her boarder eventually won out over any other doubts at that moment. "But I suppose in this case it will be all right. I will take you up."

I followed her to the top of the stairs and down the short hall. She rapped lightly on the door and opened it. There was William, lying propped in a brass bed in a small, neat room. The inspector or one of the men had gotten his pyjamas on him—( _Red silk, of all things. How extraordinarily sybaritic!)_ Doing so could not have been easy considering his injuries, so between that and the ride from the hospital, no matter how well-sprung the carriage was, it all likely contributed to his "rough morning" and more pain. Looking quickly around the pleasant space I noticed he had surprisingly few personal possessions, the only items were probably his desk, piled neatly with books and papers, and a small crucifix on the wall. His ruined suit was nowhere in evidence but the vest and all his accouterments plus the small tools usually sequestered in his pockets were in a pile on the desk. He would probably ask about the buttons….

He opened his eyes and stared a little at both of us until we came into focus for him. "Oh, ladies? I…." He tried to rise and then looked about to cover himself up with the sheet for modesty's sake, but had no strength, and by the look of him, was well-dosed with opium or laudanum as he had a rather silly smile on his face.

I marched right over and sat my bag down on the bedside table, saying: "Thank you Mrs Kitchen, that will be all now," as a way to dismiss her. She said she'd be back up in about 15 minutes with a treat for him to eat if he was so inclined.

 _Definitely well-dosed with something_ , I thought, looking at his eyes more closely. This man who never appeared anywhere without being fully and formally dressed, was showing a large expanse of legs, arms and chest, something he would not be inclined to do were he more cognizant of it, bandages not-with-standing.

Eventually he managed to drag himself out of the drug-induced or post-concussion lethargy long enough to recognize I was there with him, and his eyes followed me as I assessed him. He did not protest when I poked and prodded and examined his stitches. He said nothing as I placed my hand on his forehead and face—he did not appear to have a fever and his arm wound was not overly reddened. My hand might have lingered on his skin a bit, and it did not feel uncomfortable at all to me, and William smiled and closed his eyes briefly at my touch.

I thought he started to say "Julia" before correcting himself, but perhaps he was just grunting as he tried to reposition. "Doctor. Did I see you last night? I was not sure…it's all a bit of a blur."

"Yes, William, I was there, just to make sure you were getting the proper treatment. The inspector asked me to look in on you." Which was not technically true but I'm sure the sentiment was correct. "And I am here today to check that you are settled in. The hospital wanted to keep you another day or so, but you stubbornly insisted in coming home instead. Apparently they only agreed if your private physician took over. As I happen to know you _have_ no private physician, I guess I will have to do." I glared at him, but that odd look on him only faded marginally. "Are you nauseous?" I asked.

"Yes, a little. Er, thank you for coming." He looked a little bewildered again, his face wrinkling in concentration. "Doctor, can you tell me what is wrong with me? I don't remember. I think they told me at the hospital and the inspector said something about a roof but…" he shrugged.

 _It certainly did not seem like he remembered asking for me…_

"I am told you fell while chasing a suspect. Backwards in fact, off a fire escape that gave way and you landed on a wooden crate that mostly broke your fall…" _Or you most certainly would have died or been paralyzed,_ I did not say. "You'll mend, but I'm afraid your suit is another matter," I said with some attempt at levity and to banish the lump I discovered in my throat.

He grimaced. "My tailor, Monsieur Henri, will have my hide. I think I better not tell him…" and when he tried to chuckle, he stopped himself quickly because of his rib pain. I could see that usually keen mind of his was working things out rather slowly. His eyes narrowed and his hand went to his head.

"Constable Crabtree has your hat—and yes, you have a goose egg there and a stitch or two."

He saw me rummaging around in my bag for my syringe and medicine bottles, and made a feeble protest, eying the needle. "Oh, doctor, really I don't think I need any injection…" I cut him off, or he ran out of energy, I'm not sure which.

"The deal about leaving the hospital today was that your doctor will take over your care." I looked at him and he still did not seem to appreciate the extent of his injuries, but then again his brain was not at full capacity yet. "You are going to be out of work at least two or three weeks, _or more_ ," I said more forcefully as he tried to object again. "Especially if you develop an infection. Honestly, William be sensible! **You have a concussion, two cracked ribs, a bruised ankle, torn ligaments on both your knee and elbow and a gash the size of Yonge Street running up the length of your forearm, and you're whimpering about a little needle!** " I reproached him and found his resistance odd. In all this time I never knew he was fearful of needles and I found it quite amusing.

He eventually acquiesced and allowed the injection and a loose dressing on his arm, and I was happy he was rousing himself enough to have a little laugh about his landlady's cooking. Strangely, it was at this moment I recognized that all the tension which had been there for weeks between us had completely vanished. The dissipation had been so quiet and so subtle it stole up on me unawares. My feelings of deep friendship and the comfort level around him that I had previously enjoyed revealed themselves to me again, and I found I was quite relieved. I was about to make a remark on it (or joke about it) because of the circumstances when we were interrupted by Mrs Jones, of all people. I had quite forgotten all about her, but I quickly surmised William had not.

I was floored. I hope my face did not betray my surprise and dismay when he silently appealed to me with his eyes for me to leave so he could entertain Mrs Jones's company. Oh my! I had no right to be jealous, but my emotions whipped suddenly from warm and contented to strained. It was all I could do to fix a bright smile on my face, greet Mrs Jones politely, and flee the room as fast as I could manage.

In the hallway I got only a few steps before I needed a moment to gather my thoughts and quiet my erratic heartbeat. Why _should_ I have been so unprepared for such an eventuality? Questions tumbled in my head, but I had at least one firm answer. The only possible reason Mrs Jones was there was that someone thought she had the right to be there… _and, I noticed, she showed no hesitation in coming right up to William's room, something I had never been privy to in all these years_. I was confronted by a painful suspicion: Mrs Jones was more than just grateful for the safe return of her son. She had a romantic interest in William and he was receptive to her charms!

# # #

I pulled myself together to get back to the morgue, because I had not in fact completed the autopsy of the as- yet- unnamed male stabbing victim found outside of a French restaurant. I had to trust that focusing on my work would help me get a grip on myself and absorb my disquiet.

Gratefully, I was able to redirect my attention to my job—it was the one thing I had absolute dictum over. During the post mortem, I think I rather enjoyed Constable Crabtree's discomfort, and I may have pushed him a little too much in his new role as "Acting Detective." He presented himself in what was probably his best (and only) suit, and appeared to model himself entirely on Detective Murdoch in his approach. He asked the right questions in almost the same way as his mentor would have which I found to be quite endearing. As to the actual process of investigating the corpse…well he was slightly green coloured and queasy, but to his credit he did not try to escape his duty and held his stomach (at least in my presence.) He was attentive to the process, thoughtful and ultimately interested in the results, even if he did not appreciate my sense of humor, which surprise me as he was usually quite funny in his own right.

He did better than most, in my estimation, and I was going to be interested in the outcome of this case now that it was in his hands. When we were done, I eventually took pity on him and brought him over to my office area and extracted the bottle of whisky that lived in a secret compartment towards the back of my old wooden desk and hoisted it up. He looked a little askance.

"Doctor, is this how you end all autopsies?" He asked, only half in jest.

"Not _all_ , but I learned this trick from my predecessor." I found two glass beakers from my work bench, checked briefly for cleanliness and poured a splash in each before continuing. "His habit was to initiate all new detectives at their first full autopsy, assuming they stood their ground and did not embarrass themselves." At this he perked up conspicuously.

"Here," I handed him his glass of liquor and offered a toast. "To Acting Detective Crabtree and his first case!" Then we saluted and tossed back the drams. I rummaged in the desk drawer and came up with a small snuff tin that I offered to him.

"Thank you doctor, er, what is it?" he asked.

"You also get this. It is some camphor—it masks the stench." He opened it, sniffed and his head reared back in haste at the strength of the odor. "Even I am not completely immune to the smells, detective. You don't suppose every detective has as strong as stomach as, well….." He knew to whom I was referring and we looked at each other. I winked conspiratorially. "And by the way, _he_ uses it too on occasion, but don't tell him I told you so."

"Thank you again doctor." He looked at the dead man again. "I am hoping we can identify this man soon. I will let you know if I need to bring someone 'round to look at the body." I thought he left with a jaunty step that I was gratified to see.

Working on the autopsy did in fact distract me from thoughts of William and I was able to move right on to my next two corpses from this morning: a man who tipped over his penny-farthing cycle while showing off and hit his head, and a woman who was beaten to death—probably by her husband. Unlike my good-natured interactions with the new Acting Detective, I was not going to enjoy another contact with Detective Phillips as the female victim was from Station House No 3's precinct. _He_ _never did pass the morgue initiation,_ I groused to myself.

# # #

"Doctor? Do you have a moment? I saw your light was still burning." I was just finishing up looking at a tissue sample from this morning's second victim when I heard Inspector Brackenreid's voice call me from the top of the ramp. I had put music on again, but was paying no attention to it, lost in thought. My deflated feelings were persisting and I fear I slipped into distraction again despite my best efforts, so an interruption from the inspector was helpful at that point.

"Why, yes. How may I assist you?" I asked, pushing away from my work bench.

"How did Crabtree do? All right?" he inquired. "And was there really the victim's own pickled finger in his stomach?"

"Ah, yes. Acting Detective Crabtree actually acquitted himself quite well, pickled finger and all. It may put me off French food for a while though!" I said with a laugh.

This time the inspector laughed along with me, before he got more serious and came closer. "Doctor, how is Murdoch? I want to hear it directly from you. No lasting, er… damage?" His concern was genuine, I knew.

"Inspector, your instructions about stabilizing a person's body were brilliant and I am sure helped tremendously. He's going to have some scars, but I don't think there will be any permanent impairment. He did not rupture his spleen or a kidney. He managed not to rip any muscles or tendons or tear anything in his right arm that will affect his hand. Cracked ribs and the other torn ligaments take a while to heal though—he won't be able to really go back to work for at least two to three weeks and even then he will not at be full strength, you understand. As for his concussion, I observed no worrisome or unexpected cognitive problems—his brain will function well enough again, at least as soon as the opium is no longer needed. He is getting that, and also mercury to prevent infection."

The inspector grimaced, in sympathy with his detective's circumstances I thought. "I see. Thank you, doctor. Does he need anything?" he asked. "And will you be tending to him?"

"I think he has all he needs. And, er, I will see to him if there is a problem, of course," I turned my back briefly to readjust my face and neutralize my tone. "I think Mrs Jones will be checking in on him regularly however." I saw the inspector narrowed his eyes a bit when I swung back around.

"Ah, yes, Mrs Jones. She seems to have taken a shine to the detective…" he said, gauging my reaction, I thought.

"Has she now? She came by today while I was seeing to the detective's injuries. She appears pleasant enough…" I also thought I was not fooling him in the least. Honestly, I was embarrassed by my attempts at fishing for information but could not stop myself.

The inspector paused before continuing, trying to decide what he could say, I supposed. "Er, yes. A Catholic widow with a young son. Bakes a nice pie too…" he said as he patted his stomach. "Funny how people make acquaintances through the oddest of circumstances. Did you know, doctor… I met my wife Margaret through my job, met her by arresting her as it turned out…?" He shrugged, and checked his watch before trying to disengage from me. "Doctor, perhaps we could continue this at another time? It is getting rather on in the evening. Speaking of Margaret…she expects me home for supper…"

"Of course, Inspector. One thing before you go…" I myself had completely lost track of the time and I was surprised at the lateness of the hour. "I just want to make sure I understand. Each precinct keeps records of where the body is found and where the crime was committed…assuming an original crime scene can be found…in instances where the body might have been moved or dumped, is that right?" I asked.

"Yes, essentially, yes," he said. "But why are you asking?"

"Well, I am not sure, but what happens if a person is killed in one district but the body is taken to another? Whose precinct investigates?"

"Usually the one where the body is found," he said. "Good night, doctor. Er...get some rest, eh? Tomorrow is another day."

When I stood I saw my reflection in one of the glass-fronted cabinets: my hair was pulled apart from where I had unconsciously fussed with it and I saw dark circles under my eyes. I thought I looked quite the fright. I put everything away quickly and pushed my hair up under my hat, grabbed my coat and bag, and gratefully left the building for home.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

 **Tuesday October 13**

I slept poorly, despite having such a heavy day of work and not sleeping much at all the night before at the hospital. If I had dreams I did not remember them, and I did not allow my mind to ruminate on any topic for too long-but that meant I was mentally wrestling with myself all night. On Tuesday morning I did my best to fix myself up and hide any internal distress behind a calm façade and one of my other favorite blue outfits. I was hoping for a day of distractions, but sadly that was not to be. Briefly, I considered calling on Isaac or Paul or trying to schedule to visit one of the free clinics, but could not make myself pick up the telephone or send a letter around.

There were no new bodies and I was not called out to any crime scenes so I worked on developing samples, so I could send them to the University for analysis while I completed the more routine lab work. The morgue was silent – not the quiet I usually enjoyed, but it seemed empty and I was uncharacteristically fretful. Mr Baynes, my assistant, was helping one of the area undertakers deliver the now properly-identified M. La Rue to be prepared for burial and in the solitude I drifted off…

 _***William and I were sharing his bed, spooning closely, not a stitch of fabric at all between us, while I enfolded him in my arms and could taste the salty skin on his back with my tongue. I felt beautiful abiding sensations where his hands had stroked me, where he had deeply and passionately filled me… He had fallen asleep after being sated, and I reached over to turn him towards me, needing to have truth between us. He showed me his handsome countenance and opened his warm brown eyes._

" _ **Why can't we always be like this?"**_ _he asked, searching my face._

 _I knew the answer, of course._ _ **"Because we want different things. You want children. You want a family,"**_ _I told him._

" _ **I only want you,"**_ _he insisted, and looked at me with such love and longing it nearly broke my heart._

 _I was compelled to touch him, to look deeply into his eyes._ _ **"That's not true William. You know it."**_

" _ **All I know is I will never love any one, like I do you."**_ _He seemed so genuine and so sincere in his belief._

 _I sighed._ _ **"We never love the same way twice. But you will love again."**_ _I said it to him tenderly, with all my affection._ _ **"Love is like gravity William, you have to let yourself fall…"**_

 _Part of me wondered if I was talking to him or to myself_ _ **.**_ _I did not want to leave the dream, hoping somehow the ending would be different, and I held on to him as tightly as I could… but the dream shifted to William surrounded by Mrs Jones and her son…***_

…I woke up suddenly with a gasp and decidedly bittersweet emotions. My head had been deposited on the pages of my ledger and I looked frantically around, hoping no one had caught me sleeping. Fortunately I was quite alone and could gather my composure, with the images still imprinted in my mind. My ledger was forgotten.

 _What was that? It seemed so real….A dream? A vision? If a dream, why was it,_ I wondered, _that I dreamed of William more when he was most unattainable? And such a sensual dream at that._ I also wondered, not for the first time, if he ever dreamed of me, sensual or not…

 _Or was it a vision and was my vision the truth? Did he actually want a family and a child that I could not give him? Why did I have that, for lack of a better term, 'encounter',_ now _,_ _today_ _?_ I have never had an experience quite like that before and was confounded by the immediacy of it all—it did not seem like a dream at all, and it was _certainly_ no memory! _What in heaven's name had just happened?_ I thought of the cheerful Gaelic governess my family had for a time when my sister and I were little girls. She told us stories about mystical beings and people having the _An Da Shealladh_ , or "second sight," and those tales sounded just like my dream… Was I losing touch with reality?

 _Worse yet…_ _Did_ _I love him?_ I thought, followed by a more difficult idea that disturbed me greatly. _And more to the point, if I truly loved him, did that mean I had to let him go?_

# # #

It was barely ten minutes later when Mrs Jones burst in upon me telling me " _William"_ was in distress and asking me to come and see to him. My immediate reaction was fear of an infection setting in, so I grabbed my bag and rode with her in a fast two-horse carriage to his boarding house, my reverie all but forgotten.

During the trip we attempted awkward conversation, and I could not help but take the opportunity to examine her closely. I noticed she was conventionally pretty—young but dignified, petite with rosy skin and in obviously robust health with a womanly figure. I discovered myself thinking: _Mrs Jones is already proven to be fertile and someone who was the marriage-type. I could see William being comfortable with this intelligent and domestic companion. She would of course be attracted to his good looks and to his clean and upright habits._ _She would take care of him, his home and family and he would in turn protect and provide for her. It would be uncomplicated, traditional, and logical so perhaps…_

I stopped there, reviewing what happened to me at my desk while I was asleep. Mrs Jones reminded me of Liza a little, so it occurred to me she was more William's usual "cup- of- tea", so to speak. _Everything I was not,_ I heard myself thinking. Mrs Jones made a statement to me about fighting for what was important that I suspected covered a lot of territory. It gave me pause to consider...

I was ultimately grateful Mrs Jones called on me because the detective was indeed in a bad way and needed immediate dosing to combat infection and something to bring his fever down. I found myself, against my own sensibilities, not wanting to leave his side, O _r not wanting to leave her with him_ , I guessed, but we were quickly dismissed Mrs Burgess (Mrs Kitchen's church-friend) and back out in the street, looking uncomfortably at each other. I decided to take charge and hailed a cab for us to share, taking her first to her home and then me on to the morgue.

After a long silence I started the conversation. "Mrs Jones, I am happy you asked Mrs Burgess to put cold compresses on his head and neck…that helped tremendously. I am surprised Mrs Burgess did not send for me earlier, but it was a lucky thing you stopped by to see…him…" I could not say, " _William" or "Detective Murdoch."_

"I am used to caring for the sick, Dr Ogden. First my parents, and then my husband…and now of course Alwyn. I recognized right off William was in unusual distress. Do you think it is infection?" she asked.

" _William"…I noticed again that already it is "William" between them…._ I dragged myself back. "I am not sure, I hope that is all it is. The detective is strong and otherwise healthy. Medicine only does so much, the rest is up to the patient's constitution." I stared out the window, not sure what to think and still wondering what sparked the decided downturn in his recovery.

"I wanted to thank you also, Dr Ogden for dropping everything and rushing over. I did not know who else to call upon…" She paused and took a breath and exhaled. "So, doctor, may I ask a personal question?" She looked directly at me, unflinching.

I knew very well what she wanted to know, and for a wild moment wanted to lie. I crushed the instinct. "About Detective Murdoch?" She nodded and looked steadily, but I saw she was holding her breath. "We are professional colleagues, and nothing more…" I forced it out and looked to the window again before coming back to her. "The detective and I tried dating, only once it turned out, but it didn't really suit us." _Not exactly a lie,_ I thought, _but honest enough about the outcome_ … "I confess it was probably not a good idea in the first place." _That part was certainly true._ "But he's a good man, and all of… his fellow officers…care for his welfare very much."

"Yes, he has spoken highly of his workmates too," she said as she exhaled, and seemed content with that as we came up to her home. "Doctor, I will look after him, and I promise to call again if there are any other issues. And I will check the bandage for infection and let you know," she said before disembarking, leaving a pleasant odor of lavender behind her in the cab.

I thanked her, understanding that she was dismissing me from any excuse to look in on Detective Murdoch, so I told the driver to move on to the morgue. I used the time in the carriage to reorder my thoughts and focus once more on what I could actually do something about.

I finished all the work that was due or overdue by that point. Despite being very tired my mind would not be quieted. Something was worrying the back of my brain and it was not just my thoughts of Enid Jones and William Murdoch, but the answer was elusive and would not yield to my frustrated attentions.

I therefore made arrangements with Isaac for supper the next evening and to visit one of the University clinics, and then I took myself over to the archery range and loosed arrows for almost an hour while the daylight was still good, feeling quite satisfied at each _thwack_ as the points struck the target. I moved back from 50 feet easily through 75 feet and finally on to 100 feet with only slight loss of accuracy until I got the rhythm at each new distance with my forty-five pound recurved bow. I was usually amused when one of the men tried to borrow my equipment and struggled with the draw; or if they could draw, not be able to find the target. The 1900 Paris Olympics will be having archery for the first time as an official Olympic sport, but women will not be invited, despite the fact that even a female amateur like myself could outshoot some of the men at the club. I found that infuriating, and today it added to my pull on the string. The finest club archer was in fact a woman, Mildred Abernathy, and she and I had a small bet going about which of the men would try and outshoot her, and by how much they would fail!

My complaints to Isaac about misogyny aside, surgery and autopsy work did indeed require upper-body strength and when I did not keep up with my exercise I usually felt the aches more readily after a long day of hauling, turning, cutting, pulling and weighing bodies. I suppose it was fortunate that women's clothing styles favored covered arms so that my muscles were not obvious; it was hard enough many times to appear demure and ladylike especially with my height…. Being alone and undisturbed on the range completely suited my needs and I must say I was much more relaxed when I was done even though my back burned and my arms and shoulders quivered a bit with exhaustion. The boy who retrieved arrows was going to have a job ahead of him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

 **Wednesday October 14**

The next day I felt the effects of archery practice on my limbs. My shoulders and arms ached as I moved, but it was the good kind of pain that let me know I was building muscle and demonstrating strength. I would need it for my ballooning adventure too. I had no new bodies to examine, so I was catching up again on the inevitable paper work and preparing testimony for upcoming inquests or court appearances. I was reviewing a set of reports when a large bang reverberated in the space, causing me to jump a little.

"Doctor, come quickly!" Constable Higgins called out from the morgue bay doors. I pivoted from my stool and stared at him. No one usually demands my attention to a crime scene as if it is a medical emergency and at first I was decidedly annoyed.

"What on earth?..." I thought the young Constable was being overexcited and started to put on my most forbidding face.

He then alarmed me by saying, "It's Detective Murdoch. His landlady's sent for us. There been a disturbance at her house and the detective has gotten himself in some sort of trouble. The Inspector and some of the lads are already on their way. We have a carriage here for you. Will you come?"

"Of course," I said. Without even asking for any details, I dropped what I was doing, and after washing my hands and getting my hat secured, got into the waiting carriage for another tension-filled ride to Ontario Street.

Once again my heart raced, and in my mind I commenced running over all the possible ways "some sort of trouble" could have played out. I used the trip in the carriage to try to think logically. It was not really working, and I despaired at my inability to arrange my thoughts and assume the necessary clinical detachment, whether it be for a medical emergency or to be in _William's_ presence again. By the time I got to the detective's boarding house I spied the black police transportation wagon pulling off on its way to the jail, and inside the home, Mrs Kitchen was in her own parlour working on a restorative poured by Inspector Brackenreid.

The place was in disarray and Mrs Kitchen even more so, her grey hair completely escaping its pins. "What in Heaven's Name has happened here?" I asked. I came over to the poor distraught woman out of compassionate interest and courtesy to tend to her, but she waved me away and towards the stairs.

"Oh, no doctor. It's Mr Murdoch. God bless him. He was so clever and brave! But he over did it and passed out and fell over. It was quite terrifying…all I could do was pray…" She smiled at the inspector and gave his arm a squeeze, "…and wield the pry bar, of course." Her smile was abruptly replaced by a worried grimace and the inspector patted her arm and said, "There-there."

Inspector Brackenreid turned to me and said in a low voice: "We got Murdoch back upstairs, doctor. We'll let him tell you the whole story, but let's just say despite his limitations he still manage to save the day. Seems he was being poisoned by chloral hydrate if you can believe it. He fell pretty hard down here and it looks like there were other shenanigans going on, but we put him back into bed, er… none too gently I'm afraid." He also motioned me to the stairs and then gave a short grin. "We told him you were coming."

I wondered what Mrs Kitchen meant about a 'pry bar' but stifled my curiosity, thanked them and went up to his room, relieved because if it had been very bad then I would not have been greeted so casually or he would have been taken back to hospital. I gazed in from the hallway: he was propped in bed again—just as I had left him yesterday, but looking like he was in somewhat more pain. I made myself slow down and walk in measured steps to his bedside and sit while he followed me silently with his eyes.

I stared back at him for a long moment before speaking. "Really!" I exclaimed, putting my bag down and my hands on my hips. "Seems you have gotten yourself into a mess again. You can't manage even a day of doing what you are told, can you?" I chided as I looked carefully at his pupils and then took his pulse, which was steady.

His face was a bit sheepish and he shrugged. He did look like he was uncomfortable, and I was not sure of it was merely pain or my presence. Eventually he sighed and smiled up at me. "Mrs Burgess was a fake—she teamed up with a criminal to rob the house. I just got in the way, that's all." He tried to gesture to a contraption on his desk but stopped half way and groaned. _Pain, it was definitely pain,_ I thought.

"I used my night-vision apparatus to blind her…" Even in his current state he had that delighted, boyish enthusiasm in his eyes and was eager to tell all, so I knew I was about to get a treatise on parabolic mirrors.

So I interrupted him. "That's all well and good, but you have set your recovery back a week at least. Let me finish my examination and then you can finish the story." He submitted to another round of a physical investigation of his injuries without objection other than some hissing between his teeth when it particularly hurt. I looked at his ankle and knee which were already swelling considerably, and knew that he needed some ice if some could be found this late in the year, and a packet of willow-bark extract I told him I would find and send up. I then looked at the stitches in his arm. The redness was less, there was no purulent drainage and the wound did not smell bad. He would be happy I did not think he needed another injection.

I reported my findings to him. **"Well, the infection has receded. The choral hydrate they were feeding you was weakening your defenses. How do you feel?"** I tested for fever again by putting my hand on his forehead and face **.**

" **Better."** He said and smiled a little. His hair was slightly mussed and it looked like he'd had one of the lads help him clean up a bit and scrape his face in hopes of being presentable. His pyjamas were buttoned up too. _Where and when did he ever get them?…They looked new…_ I left that train of thought alone.

" **Indeed. Your fever's gone. And the pain?"** I asked. His eyes were clear and his color was good.

" **I can bear it,"** he stated.

" **Yes, I know you can."** I could not help smiling but looked away. We chuckled together, faced each other and a shared small moment of connection and clarity…. This was almost the exact position we were in when we had our first kiss in the park—my hand on his face, sitting this close, sharing an intimacy. I had so much I wanted to say and I was almost certain he wanted to say something important to me too…

" **Oh I just heard…"** Mrs Jones drove in, looking at the ceiling and towards William. **"Are you all right, William?"**

He answered: **"I'm fine,"** with a little more emphasis on "fine" than was actually true.

" **Oh, what on earth happened?"** She asked as she glanced at the huge hole in the ceiling again.

" **It's a long story…"** He smiled charmingly at her.

I knew I had no place there and needed to go **. "Yes, well I should leave you to tell it."**

" **Thank you, Dr Ogden."** He said this gently and affirmatively, asking for acknowledgement, I thought, of our new interpersonal status and to demonstrate for the benefit of Mrs Jones that there was only professional courtesy, perhaps with an allowance for camaraderie between us. I could swear he was thanking me for more than medical attention. _And I think he was grateful I was getting out of the way at that moment…_

" **You're welcome, detective."** I answered the way I knew I must. I had no real idea how the conversation might have gone if we had not been interrupted. I do not know if it could have or would have changed anything. But as I left the room and closed the door on them my heart sunk in a way I did not expect, with the realization that Mrs Jones and Detective Murdoch were already courting for all intents and purposes, and would have the next few weeks to solidify their new relationship.

As I descended the stairs I reminded myself: _I told him in no uncertain terms that there was no hope for a personal or romantic relationship between us and I sent him away. He did as I asked and he has transferred his affections to another woman. And why not? I offered a sharp tongue and clinical prodding and pain, and she offers warm comfort. He has clearly been ready for a relationship again… so if not with me, then why not someone else?_

 _Logic_ _is a brutal companion,_ I thought.

I was sad and angry. Sad he was gone; angry that he could move on so quickly- the fact of which seemed to belie all his statements about loving only me and waiting for so long to tell me of his feelings due to a general reticence in his character. I remembered the inspector's assessment of William's so-called process… _"Slow and dead slow,"_ I believe he said…

With uncomfortable insight I told myself: _What's done is done. I told him no, and it looks like a good thing I did._ Then again _, what if…._

"Doctor, I said how is he?" Inspector Brackenreid and was in the front hall with Mrs Kitchen and I hadn't heard him, preoccupied as I was. I recalled myself and told them my assessment and asked for the ice and willow bark extract before leaving.

The real problem which I only understood now, of course, was that I _did_ care for him. Slowly, oh- so- slowly, the realization pushed its way into my consciousness. For all I was angry again at him for appearing to be shallow in his affections… _Or was it plain jealousy?_ I asked myself. It pained me to admit that however happy and thrilled I had been when he said he was in love with me, I never expressly told him how I felt about him… _I never told him I loved him_ …

My vision or dream appeared to foretell that _because_ I cared for him I had to release him to find his true happiness. _Was what just passed between us, unspoken as we sat there together?_ I won't say he was asking for my blessing, but he seemed to be asking for- _something._ I just did not know exactly what. I gazed up at William's window from my position on the street. I did know one thing:

 _I would not be back._

 _ **To Be Continued….**_


	12. Chapter 12

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Author's Note: _My friend Clare is the best!_ I lost the second half of the completed story because I did a stupid computer thing (OK- I actually deleted the entire story by accident!) while trying to post the folowing chapters. She helped me recover it. ( _Two months worth of work_ - _OMG!)_ Looks like I needed a lot of rescuing on this one-so here is her public thank you.

And Very Special Thank You to all who chose to "Follow" the story- That is seriously way cool...post a comment too, feedback welcome! This is my first attempt at "serializing" a story into mini cliff hangers- let me know what you think-rg

# # #

 **Chapter 12**

 **Wednesday Evening October 14**

Despite my emotional equilibrium being tossed around earlier in the day, the meal with Isaac that evening was pleasant and just the distraction I needed. He had actually suggested French cuisine and I had to tell him why I was not going to be interested any time soon. After appearing to be appalled and then dissolving into laughter, he used that fact as an opportunity to point out the advantages of a more traditional medical career. I was more receptive this time, perhaps because of events earlier in the day.

"There is nothing traditional about a female physician, even though we are almost in the twentieth century, Isaac. Do you know Dr York tried to bar me from the hospital this week? The old coot was sure there were no such things as women doctors and certainly not ones who should treat the full range of patients and conditions!" I did go on a bit about my encounter of a few nights ago, neglecting only a small detail as to the identity of the patient in question. I was not prepared to withstand Isaac's approbation, not at this time.

We fell into discussing our experiences at Bishop's University and how difficult someone like Doctor Bradford York with his various prejudices would have made it for both of us during our medical school internships and residencies in that very most Anglican of institutions, as Isaac was raised as a Quaker and I as a Unitarian. We finished supper in good time and arranged for a hansom.

The University clinic Isaac chose for our visit was open from 3:00 pm to 9:00 pm. The evening had turned brisk and cloudless under a first quarter moon. We arrived about 8:00 pm to observe a line of people, each with a colored card, hoping to be admitted to church hall at St Michael's off Church near Shuter that was turned into a clinic this one day each month. Isaac and I pushed past the crowd, accompanied by much grumbling from those who had been waiting patiently. A large man at the door refused our admittance until we explained we were physicians and invited. When inside, Isaac found the head of the clinic, Dr Bernard Irving, who was coming out from behind a screen where he was tending to a patient. Isaac made introductions.

"The pleasure is all mine, Dr Irving. Dr Tash has told me of the wonderful work you are doing and I wanted to see for myself," I said. I looked at the set up and was impressed and told him so. The space was neat, very clean, well-stocked and sanitary protocols were in place.

"You'll have to excuse me. I will need to give you the tour and continue working as we talk, if that is all right. My staff of doctors, medical students, nurses and orderlies try to see everyone who has arrived in line by 4:00 pm. We do a cursory check outside to weed-out addicts or malingerers and such, then divide the cases into categories: those who need to go directly to hospital, contagious versus non-contagious of course, simple orthopedic or laceration injuries, gut infections, heart ailments, lung problems, etcetera." He pointed to a row of chairs holding mostly women with a variety children. "We even see the young ones if they are brought in. But it is mostly work-related ailments or injuries and of course infection that bring people in. The clinic hours accommodate labourers, who generally toil for ten to twelve hours six days a week if they have full-time employ…"

He continued, "Despite Ontario laws that say children must be in school and not in the workplace, the regulation is largely ignored in favor of any opportunity to make money, and in any event, their parents needed to be able to bring children to see a doctor outside of work hours, as absence from the shop or factory floor results in loss of wages for them or their children. Some these people have never seen a doctor other than a folk healer or someone's granny or even an old soldier from one of the wars. Unfortunately we have to send so very many away because we run out of capacity…" While he said all this, Dr Irving moved from one partition to the next examining his patients, quickly and expertly, conferring with one of his staff who executed the required treatments.

"Doctor, what happens to the people who are turned away?" I asked, curious how they handled those who were frustrated at having no one to help them.

"We try to send the ones that can afford it on to private doctors. Some agree to be research subjects for the university in exchange for cash or treatments. The rest?" He shrugged. "It is not possible to see everyone, Dr Ogden. We try to prioritize and do our best. We have a few dock workers who keep the peace for us if someone becomes belligerent or disorderly—you encountered Mr Abbott at the door. Mostly we help workers who are sick or have been injured so they can heal and get back to work." He surveyed the line of people and checked his watch. "We have about forty five more minutes and, by the look of it, at least forty more people to treat. Dr Ogden, Dr Tash, I don't suppose you two would be willing to lend a hand? That line over there," he pointed to the other side of the room, separated by more screens, "is here for the infection clinic. We could use some help."

Isaac and I could not refuse, so we pitched in until the clinic shut down. I was quite intrigued by the whole clinic process since it was a little daunting to sort and treat so many people so quickly. To think I was occasionally disgruntled about the workload I had some days at my morgue! It was nothing like the volume of activity the clinic witnessed. Working hard quickly absorbed my whole attention. Back out on the street a little after 9:00 pm I was so uplifted I was willing to walk home but Isaac found a hansom for us.

"So, Julia, it seems you enjoyed yourself. I am so pleased," he said.

"Yes, the live ones are interesting—they even occasionally say thank you!" I laughed back at him. Today had been one of the most discombobulating I had had in a while, and I was happy it was coming to close. I wanted a bath and a long sleep, and nothing more. I had questions about the clinics and was interested in maybe helping out, but I felt all that could wait, as my exhaustion was overtaking me rapidly. At my door I bade him a fond good night, went quietly up to my flat, completed my ablutions and fell into a dreamless sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

 **Thursday October 15**

I arrived to work the next morning well-rested and eager for the day. I was continuing to struggle with organizing and making sense of the numerical information from the various reports with which I was working, (the tabulations currently escaping me), and in addition I was still puzzled by an elusive differential diagnosis on Freddie's wound. In my quest for answers I discovered I needed one of my medical books and was displeased to find it was not shelved in its usual location. I realized I had been distracted a bit lately, but it was uncharacteristic of me to misplace my reference material and I was about to reprove Mr Baynes, when I remembered that Detective Murdoch had borrowed it. To stretch my legs I went across the laneway to the Station House hoping to get my book back and peruse the detective's own collection, as his was both broad and heavily weighted towards math, along with mechanical and electrical engineering and physics.

When I arrived, I had to wait a bit while Inspector Brackenreid was occupied with his wife. The glass partitions in this particular Station House, although attractive in their own way and allowing for a bright work environment, do very little in muffling the sounds of conversation and it was clear they were having a disagreement—and that Mrs Brackenreid was getting the upper hand. I waited by the partner's desk arrangement in the bull pen until she sailed out of his private door and then came to his other door and knocked, hoping his mood was not too ruined.

He seemed to be relieved it was me. "Doctor!" he said cheerily. "Please come in. Always nice to see a friendly face." He smiled, pointedly I thought, likely knowing that everyone present overheard at least the tone of things between him and his wife. "Do you have the lab reports back yet? I know Crabtree was looking for them."

"No, Inspector. The University laboratory has not finished with them yet. I came by to ask a favor. I need to retrieve a reference manual from the detective's office and was also hoping I could borrow one on statistics?" I asked.

He said, readily enough, "Of course, doctor, of course. Murdoch won't be needing any of them any time soon, I don't imagine. And actually you could help us out bit. He's asked us to bring one of his contraptions and some supplies to Mrs Kitchen's. Seems he cannot be still, even under doctor's orders and is complained he is bored stiff. He already has a set of his bloody magazines and old case files—we delivered them this morning, now he's asking for more. None of us quite understand what he wants this time though. Could you take a look?" He reached for a slip of paper by his telephone.

"I will help if I can…." I said as I took it from him. "Inspector, I am not sure what this means?" The page said 'ale bick' and 'cue bick'.

"Oh, sorry, the telephone connection was poor and so is my handwriting. He said it was a copper set up, could that be right?"

"You mean alembic and curcubit perhaps?" He nodded. "Actually, if you come over with me I will help you find it."

He agreed and we traipsed across the way to the companion office and I poked on his shelves and in his equipment closet finally coming up with the required item. "You will perhaps be amused, Inspector." I held it up.

"Ah, I see… Looks rather like a still, eh doctor?" He peered at the tabletop version.

"Indeed, it is. Since I cannot imagine the detective is making liquor or that Mrs Kitchen would _let_ him for that matter…" I looked at the other items on the list and frowned.

"Er… I think he's helping the boy make something for his mother…." he said as he looked away. "Would you like to deliver it, doctor? If you are stopping by to look in on your patient?"

As the ingredients appeared to be for making perfume, specifically lavender, I declined. "I think he would prefer one of the constables to tote this around so he can have a conversation about his cases."

He accepted my explanation and watched as I cruised the shelves again looking for my books. I found my reference on his desk and the statistics book in his library case. Clutching them I tried to take my leave and the inspector blocked my path and 'a-hemmed.'

"Yes, Inspector?" I was curious because he was blushing slightly.

"Um…yes, well doctor. I wondered if you'd like to accompany me to a play, tonight in fact. I know it is short notice, and you might have other plans already, and I could understand completely if you do…but I have two tickets and, I usually offer them to…well it's _Shakespeare_ , 'Twelfth Night,' in fact."

His enthusiasm for the play and the shyness with which he was entreating me was irresistible. I knew the reviews of the play had been superlative and guessed that his wife was not going to accompany him and he really wanted to go…. I just could _not_ turn him down.

 _Did he also believe that I was without an available escort?_ …. _Was I_ that _pitiful?_ I paid that no never-mind. "Why, I'd be delighted, Inspector." I smiled and he looked surprised and relieved. "Shall I meet you there at curtain time?"

He beamed at me again and slapped his hand on the worktable. "Excellent! You just made my day, doctor!"

Before he could leave I decide to press my advantage a little. "Inspector," I asked, "could I beg another favor? Would it be all right if I asked one of the other constables to look up some information for me? Just a matter of getting some records for me while he is already in the course of other duties…?"

He was in a good enough mood that he said yes right away and whistled a low tune as he made his way back to his own office space. He spied Constable Higgins coming in past the front desk and yelled over to put some tea on and then take 'Detective Murdoch's bloody little still' to him, eliciting a guffaw and some disbelieving sniggers from the other men. The inspector chortled along with them. I looked around the detective's office where I was still lingering and sighed—it seemed empty and not just because no one but my lone self was there.

I was still standing there when Constable Higgins came up to the work table next to me to pick up the detective's apparatus. I roused myself sufficiently to ask him to stop by the records office on his way back and look up some information for me. He agreed with a smile and a "Yes ma'am!" saying I'd have it by the next day at the latest.

# # #

The play was enjoyable, well-acted and staged with wonderful costumes. I had neglected to recall the essence of the play and the dialogue about the pain of unrequited love, but as a diversion it was splendid. During the interval the inspector and I chatted widely about the play as well as work and current events,. I don't remember having such an interesting theatre companion, save for my sister (who was usually caustic in her comments about a performance.) Not so the inspector. He displayed his love for the language and wit of the Bard. I got home about midnight hoping for rest, and (of course!), was called out for a fresh corpse, barely an hour after finally falling asleep.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

 **Friday October 16**

The next day I was tired, and was experiencing ongoing disquiet; the unstable weather matched my mood. Then to make matters even worse the boy I knew as "Freddie" was brought in by the morgue wagon. I was shocked when I uncovered the body and recognized the youth. He was attended by Detective Hamish Slorach, who was an interesting character, perhaps putting on his scattered persona to lull suspects into underestimating him, but who would at least make some effort on behalf of the deceased.

"Detective, what can you tell me about where and how this boy was found?" I greeted the detective and inquired after the particulars before starting the autopsy. Freddie's small form was so silent and gaunt, it was hard to imagine the defiant mouth and fierce spark of life that once inhabited it. His body remained rigid and he appeared to have been in agony when he died.

Detective Slorach removed his gray homburg and stood respectfully by the gurney and recited what he knew. "At the end the lad was in a bad state, almost like he was possessed, according to one of the other people trying to sleep—ten to a room if you can believe it! His death throes and greater fear of contagion drove his fellow boarders into overcoming their usual avoidance of the police, prompting someone go to Station House No. 2. They want to know what he died of, and they're scared." He paused. "You look like you know him, doctor," he queried.

"I do, detective, or at least I have met him before. He has a brother I believe. I may be able to assist in locating him, if you like?" I offered, thinking George Crabtree will want to help.

"That would be most appreciated, doctor. I will leave you to it." The detective was not going to stay for the autopsy.

As I suspected, young Freddie died where he was found, liver mortis and rigor mortis were consistent with the information Detective Slorach provided. I called over to Station House No. 2 and related my findings as well as asking for the list of all known persons who came in contact with Freddie, explaining what to do with it. I took measurements and samples of his suppurating leg wound to confirm my suspicions with a colleague.

I sorted Freddie's belongings and caught sight of a familiar notation, very similar to those on papers found in Daniel Murphy's waterproof billfold. It was faint and smudged. After thinking about it for a second, I used my tissue sample magnifier to examine the notations which seemed to indicate a business address—66 Hymus. Out of curiosity I added it to the list of inquiries I was going to have Constable Higgins research for me when he got the chance. _Was it was too much of a coincidence?_ I wondered.

The niggling questions I had about young Freddie's health and death needed answers. I called the University and left a message with Paul's assistant, Mr Norwood, that I wanted to bring a sample to Dr DuMaurier and relayed the gist of what I was looking for. Paul called back right away and said that first thing Monday morning would work for him, so we agreed on a time to meet before his classes started and his students began filling in. I sent a note off to Isaac in the post.

Having done that I went back to the problem I had been turning over in my head for days now. A man of his word, Constable Higgins had indeed sent over the information I previously requested and my eyes hurt from peering at page after page of numbers and notations in the overlapping reports that I was looking into. I reached for a headache remedy twice with not much relief.

So for _divertissement_ and to refresh my mind I let my attention drift to last night's play with Inspector Brackenreid. All that confusion about truth and love; trying to love who is suitable to love instead of what your heart calls for…Love is indeed madness and the playwright produced such a long contorted process for a happy ending (well, except for Malvolio…) that it strained credulity. Who could imagine such a set of real-life events…that many twists and turns in an actual relationship? _Rubbish!_

I replayed the lively discussion I had with the inspector before the first act. We talked of how the original play must have been received with men playing the female parts—a male actor playing the part of a woman who was disguised as a man… and I teased him with the idea that if clothes make the man (or woman), then it was time all women dressed in trousers and suits if they wanted to be taken seriously. I left it vague enough so that he could not really tell how serious I was, and enjoyed a little of his discomfort—it had been good to spar a bit with him.

My recollection sent me onto several mental tangents when something suddenly and conclusively slid together and I could see the elusive pattern emerging from the data. It took _not_ seeing what was there in order to actually see what _was_ there. I rearranged the data for confirmation—and my excitement was cooled quickly by unease. Now that I had a potential answer, it opened up even more questions. So what was I going to do about it?

I weighed out to whom to give the bad news first; the inspector about his numbers or his detective about his young friend. I decided to let George Crabtree know about Freddie before tackling anything else, so I telephoned and he thanked me quietly saying he would send someone 'round to try to inform his brother, and would come view the body when he was free.

If anything the other information I had to share with Inspector Brackenreid was even more troubling.

I checked the clock. I considered waiting until morning, but then rebuked myself for cowardice. I gathered my papers and looked them over one more time, suddenly unsure of myself. I did not wish to be perceived as hysterical or fanciful, but I also could not hold back the information any longer. Knowing the inspector was likely still in his office, I decided to go over there now without calling first. I knew that I was going to have to make a persuasive argument and I did not wish to be put off.

When I got to the Station House I saw the inspector was indeed in his office, alone and working on a scotch. His jacket was off and he looked tired. I strode to his door and knocked, and then entered and closed the door behind me before actually being invited to stay. He looked a little put out but regained his composure quickly. "Good evening, doctor. What brings you over?"

I placed the pages I brought, side by side on his desk. "You got me thinking Inspector, after the performance of 'Twelfth Night'…about things not being what they seem." I said nothing about my other musing regarding inconvenient passions. "If you examine the data, you can see that it does seem that your precinct has a lower murder rate than the surrounding districts, does it not?"

"Indeed." He nodded, looking puzzled. "Go on, doctor, you have my attention."

"Most people are creatures of habit, Inspector. They are born, live, work and usually die within only the few square blocks of their accustomed neighborhood. Many people, especially within some of the Toronto immigrant Wards, never leave the Ward, never step foot outside their whole lives. But if you look at information regarding _where_ these victims either worked or lived, you will notice that the majority of these deaths," I pointed to a section of names I separated out, "can be tied directly back to Station House No 4's area." He nodded, and encouraged me to continue, so I plowed on:

"I am sure you recall that up until just a few years ago when a suspicious death occurred, the police called upon one of the various physicians, including myself, who agreed to occasionally serve as a coroner. The doctor was asked to come to the place the body was found and examine the corpse, and then the police called an inquest right there at the scene. Citizens were asked to fulfill their duty to go over the evidence and then testify to the facts. This was before there was a central morgue and my predecessor was appointed Toronto City Coroner with that task consolidated into one office under a single jurisdiction…"

"Yes, yes, doctor, I'm aware of that…" the inspector said with a small sigh, indicating he was losing interest.

I cleared my throat. "In the past, then, there was no central recordkeeping really, as each separate coroner only saw to a portion of the overall deaths and their reports were filed with the courts. Do you remember me asking you how the police statistics were kept and if someone could manipulate them?"

This time he shot another look at the pages on his desk and sat up straighter. "So what are you saying, doctor?" His eyes were narrowed in concentration and his face was flushing a little. He was waiting for my line of reasoning.

I took in and let out a deep breath before I spoke. "I have been keeping my own records since…well, for a while now since I took over as city coroner. I think someone is deliberately keeping certain deaths out of your Station House's area so you and your men will not be investigating them. In fact, if you look carefully, there seems to be an inverse relationship between the clearance or conviction rates and the likelihood of a body to turn up in a particular precinct."

He brought the desk lamp nearer and examined my notations closely, putting his reading glasses on. "And this here? Is it what I think it is? And where the devil did you get this?"

"Constable Higgins provided these figures, and _these_ are from my morgue ledger records. These numbers are for _your_ precinct that encompasses most of the east-side Wards, Cabbage town, Cork-town and the main Toronto harbor at the foot of Yonge. And these are deaths of persons tied directly to your precinct, but their body was found, sometimes miles away from where it logically should have been found."

He read and re-read the pages and I saw the color in his face rise to his hairline. "So because Murdoch has had the best record…"

"Someone is making sure he does _not_ head up the investigations…"

At that his face and Yorkshire accent both got more florid. "And the job goes to another detective…Like _Phillips_!... Bloody Hell!"

"Precisely," I affirmed.

"So doctor, you figured all this out by yourself…" He looked at me gravely over the tops of his glasses.

I did not know if he was being patronizing or not or if he was offended at the implications. "I am sorry to call your record into question, Inspector…and well, as I said before, statistics are not my area of expertise…"

"No, no doctor, relax. I am not criticizing you. I'm impressed."

The inspector removed his glasses, rose to open his door and leaned out of the doorway. "Crabtree! Get over here. Now! And bring Higgins, Evans and Worsley with you!" He turned back me again. "Doctor, when they get here, repeat all of this to them, word for word. We will need to verify all of this before I take it to Chief Constable Stockton."

When I finished relating the information, the inspector asked if there were any questions. All three men started talking at once, and he hushed them.

"Higgins, you've seen these figures. Did you copy them accurately? Have you seen the same thing the doctor has?" the inspector drilled into Constable Higgins, but the young officer did not give any ground.

Constable Higgins said, "Aye, sir. You did say one of the other Inspectors needled you about cheating…" He tried to make a joke out of it but the inspector just glared at him.

"Crabtree, what do you think?" The inspector tapped his hand on the pages sitting on his desk.

"Sir. It would seem to me there is another larger question: Who, but someone in the constabulary or with the city, would be privy to these reports? They are not published—and no one knows of Dr Ogden's morgue statistics ledger. So, someone would have had to be paying close attention to the bigger picture for quite some time-months or years even. And more to the point, who or what enterprise would want or need to redistribute or dispose of dead bodies like this? And how are these two parties connected?"

The four of us looked to the inspector. He did not need to repeat a "Bloody Hell." We all heard it in our own minds. " _Very good_ , Detective Crabtree, you are going to earn that title yet. So, gentleman, _and lady_ , er… doctor, Murdoch is not the only one around here who can solve a problem case." He looked at the men in a sort of challenge and I saw each unconsciously straighten up just a little. The inspector brightened considerably and squared his own shoulders in a familiar military gesture.

He slapped his hands together and I saw his eyes shining and a new energy in his movements. He said: "Well! Let's get crackin', shall we? We need to divide up this investigation in a way that does not rattle anyone's cage. Doctor, can you match which deaths go with the detectives who investigated them?" I said I could and proceeded to do so. The men took notes and Detective Crabtree asked sensible follow-up questions, after which the inspector obtained a city map for us to use to reconnoiter.

When we were done the inspector dismissed his constables with specific instructions and admonishment to make quiet inquiries and not use the telephone or be overheard. Before he could leave, I added my new question to Constable Higgin's list and he said he would check that address with the records office for me. I was mentally exhausted, but also a bit exhilarated.

I felt so invigorated in fact I decided to dive right into my reference book that I retrieved from the Station House the day before. I thought there was an outside chance the manual might have the description or even a drawing of the wound I found on Freddie's leg, and I could make my own diagnosis and then have Paul do a confirmation for me. I strode back to the morgue and sat at my desk with a new cup of tea and was feeling very pleased with myself, even putting the music back on while flipping through the book, confident now in my preliminary diagnosis and merely waiting for the correct page to show the answers to me.

Unfortunately, page after page revealed nothing of any use whatsoever. About three-quarters of the way through I was past the section on dermatology and past the sections on infections and wounds. Still flipping though, my fingers found a lump in near the back cover which turned out to be an unfamiliar book mark, face down in the pages. The rough leather was very thick and stiff with a blue silk ribbon threaded through. When I slid it out and turned it over, I nearly dropped the heavy manual.

The smooth side of the bookmark had my initials "J.O." beautifully tooled in the leather at the top, surrounded by a rectangular border. There was an open rectangle in the middle, and along the bottom edges was stamped " _1st Corinthians 13:1-13._ "

 _What in Heaven's Name!_ I thought. I was very certain I had never seen this before and equally certain I knew it was made by…. _William…_ and meant as a gift for me.

I was whipsawed by my emotions again, troubled by how quickly they were stirred up… _Only by William Murdoch!_ I wondered when he made it—recently or even years ago? I tried hard to be angry that, as one more protestation of love, it was also more evidence of the impermanence of his feelings despite the declarations of love contained in the verses. But in reality I was touched… I could not help but be moved by the sweetness and sincerity that I liked to believe prompted his quixotic impulse to make it for me—it was sentimental and romantic…

I thought in a flash about Ruby and was immensely grateful I had never written her about my feelings for William or the state of any relationship between us other than as colleagues—she would have relentlessly questioned me, tortured me even for details. I could not bear the idea that she would judge me for having been a fool.

I will admit this to no living person, but I could no longer hold back a few tears... I knew I needed to move on, just as I pushed William to do, _just as he had apparently done,_ but I thought I would retain the bookmark, just the same, as a keepsake of sorts because just perhaps he had been sincere after all, at least at one time, and that made me happy to think it might have been so.

When I came back to my senses the music had stopped and it was past time for me to head home. I decided to send a note to Isaac asking him if he could meet me on Sunday, and then pack up for the evening. I washed the now cold tea out of the cup, replaced the samples in the cooler and reshelved the book in its proper place. The bookmark I placed in my desk calendar. I suspected I would need some distraction to help me sleep that night, and not only because of the deaths that were on my mind. On second thought, I rummaged around for the makings of a sleeping draught to take home with me, just in case.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

 **Saturday October 17**

By the next morning, the skies had cleared, and I was relieved that the constabulary was now in charge of figuring out the meaning of what I had discovered regarding the distribution of corpses between the Toronto precincts. My life could get back on track. I was looking forward to seeing Isaac for luncheon on Sunday, and finally break out of my doldrums by taking on the challenge of ballooning, my first lesson being arranged for the following week. I was already composing a letter to Ruby about it in my mind, feeling excited about doing something adventurous that my sister had not as yet accomplished, and aware of a return of the competitive streak between us.

The day ended as well as it started with A.D. Crabtree bringing in another one of his waifs for a bit of medical care, so that I was all together pleased with myself as I closed up the morgue and left early for the day.

A two-horse closed carriage was the only conveyance visible when I emerged from the morgue to go home, so I walked over and spoke with the driver who confirmed it was he that was sent to take me to my flat. He got down to open the door and I almost waived him away, but as he insisted it was his pleasure to hand me in, I acquiesced. I was settled into the box of the curtained carriage when the door opened again and a gentleman stepped up and into the seat opposite me, tipping his hat.

I started to protest but before I could, the carriage rolled away with a sudden jarring thrust that sent me back into my seat and I heard a raspy voice say, "Please, Dr Ogden, indulge me. I am no harm to you. I am fully aware you are deadly able to defend yourself – he was a multiple murderer of women, was he not…?"

The gentleman let that statement hang between us and I was shocked. Information on Harlan Orgill and that case was kept very close as it was quite embarrassing for the constabulary to have been taken in by his disguise as a Scotland Yard inspector, so it was not publicized at all in the papers and there had not even been an inquest after his death. _How would someone know this?_ I started to open my mouth to ask, but he interrupted, easily reading my mind…

"There is very little that happens in this city of which I am not aware. My name is Rioghnan O'Sullivan and I think it is time for us to meet."

My thoughts were full of _"Now see here!", "This is outrageous!"_ and _"How dare you!_ " as well as more choice words…. but none of them would leave my lips as my tongue was dry and glued to the roof of my mouth in fear. I saw no weapon and he was conventionally attired in a grey business suit and cravat, but there was an element of menace in every line of his face and body, despite his round cheeks, cleft chin and greying hair.

He kept talking so I took the time to compose myself and determine my best course of action while I listened. Despite the wholly Irish name, there was only the faintest accent, buried deep in his vowels and consonants and polished out by time and intention. I needed to listen very carefully to hear his voice over the street noises.

"You are not being kidnapped, doctor. We are on the way to your home, just taking a somewhat circuitous route, that is all. You will be there soon and unmolested, I assure you. You have been making inquiries have you not?" His rough voice asked as mildly as if he was commenting on the weather.

He seemed not to expect an answer so I did not give one. I was still summoning the spit to talk but instead of afraid I was getting angry. He apparently noticed that and actually smiled.

"Yes. That is more like it." He settled back in his seat and continued his monologue. "Do you know, doctor, that you helped someone under my protection once? A woman whose beloved child had died. She immediately collapsed upon hearing the news, suddenly unable to walk. In her grief, she was completely neglecting her other children and her responsibilities. Against her family's familiy's wishes she insisted on coming to your office to see her baby lying in the morgue."

I did recall the family, and nodded once to show I was still listening.

"You listened compassionately to her, spoke kindly to her, and helped her realize that she was fearful of losing her other children because she loved them so much…and whatever you said to her, it was right. She got up and walked out of the morgue…is still walking as far as I know." He never took his eyes from my face.

It happened I had just read an article on hysterical paralysis and took a gamble in applying the strategy in that case, having no idea it would help the woman, only hoping it would not harm… I looked back at O'Sullivan. "And..?" I asked.

"By my reckoning that makes me in your debt. I usually collect debts, doctor, and I am not in the habit of owing them. You are here with me because I am going to settle the debt and because we have a problem in common," he told me.

"To what inquiries are you referring, Mr O'Sullivan?" I still needed some time to think and wanted him to get to the point.

He did not answer directly. _He must indeed be Irish, enjoys spinning a tale_ , I thought. "I have connections in every corner of Toronto, high and low. My business is as a middle man, I guess you would call it. I started out carting goods from one spot to the next as a youngster and saw an opportunity for providing a needed service, moving anything and everything from one place to another, taking just a small fee, a pittance really, from each end. Everybody benefits. Now nothing moves in this city without me facilitating it or deciding if it gets delivered or not. I have made a good living from it, creating jobs for men and looking after their lives since no one else was doing that, either. Lately you have been asking questions about the distribution of murders…bodies being moved around and such?"

I guessed there was only one reason he would be having his conversation with me. I decided to be direct if he would not. "Your efforts to skew police data within Station House No 4's precinct backfired. The irregularity caused people to want to investigate…rather than ignore you…"

"Caused you to investigate you mean…" Again, that mild raspy voice as neutral and quiet as could be—and it chilled my outrage again with an unspoken threat.

I kept going anyways. "My job as coroner is all about investigating discrepancies, Mr O'Sullivan. I look for whatever has altered the human body, has caused a vital human being to cease to exist. It is always what draws my eye..."

"And your efforts drew my attention," he responded.

"Is that a confession?" I fairly blurted it out and immediately wished I hadn't.

All he did was laugh a soft hissing sound. "No, doctor, not at all. However, do tell Constable Higgins that looking at Toronto Insurance fire maps was particularly insightful of him. But I can assure you the irregularities as you call them will smooth themselves out rather quickly now. Besides, any good businessman in my line of work has alternative routes…"

The hair on the back of my neck was standing straight out by this time, I was sure. _In less than twenty four hours he traced all of that back to me!_ _And_ My God _. He mentioned Henry by name and whatever he found out before I ever got the information!_ _His reach much be spectacularly wide and deep indeed._

But I took myself firmly in hand-decided I was not about to be intimidated by this man because it would not help me in the least, and I was not going to show fear, not now and certainly not to him at this moment. I asked, "Mr O'Sullivan, what is it you want?" as calmly as I could, calling on every ounce of detachment I could summon up to look at him evenly.

"You are not the only one that thinks there is something odd going on with the number of deaths in the city. I am hearing that children, whole families, are getting sick and dying and no one is doing anything about it. People who are, shall we say, also under my protection. I am going to tell you want I know and you are going to apply your considerable abilities to help figure out how and why."

I did not know what to say to that. So instead I made what I thought of as a bold move. "Mr O'Sullivan, perhaps you need to tell your driver to keep circling Queens's Park while we talk." I wanted him to know I knew where we were and that I was not without my own resources, and that I was not going to be strong-armed by him.

He narrowed his eyes at me, appearing to weigh his decision. Then he smiled and pushed the carriage window open, saying only, "Around again," and then leaned forward so I could better hear what he had to say.

 _ **To Be Continued…..**_


	16. Chapter 16

**Thank you for the reviews and "Follows." Here's the final set of chapters...**

 **# # # #**

 **Chapter 16**

 **Saturday October 17— late afternoon & evening**

By the time I got home and upstairs to my flat and barred the door, my mind was spinning at the implications. I considered staying holed up for my own safety, but dismissed that quickly enough. I did not think there was anywhere possible to hide from Mr O'Sullivan. I also assumed he would expect me to use all my own connections, so I turned right around and headed to Station House No. 4 in hopes of catching Inspector Brackenreid. I allowed my usual complaint to run through my brain: _One of these days I will have a telephone in my own home!_

The inspector was chatting with Constable Hodges and the desk Sergeant when I arrived and interrupted them, asking the inspector for a private moment. Before we even started I asked for a drink, and he politely poured two and invited me to sit, merely raising his eyebrows a fraction. _He did not chastise me as I remembered Isaac had…_

"I need to stand, Inspector." In fact I paced as I explained what just happened and what I discovered. He refilled our glasses before we were done and filled the air with agitated Yorkshire colloquialisms, most of which I had never heard before.

Finally he said: "Doctor Ogden. Please sit down. I am tired just watching you. I am going to call Crabtree in and we are all going to have a chat."

He pulled his sleeves up and leaned out of his office to call over to his acting detective, currently occupying the companion office across the bullpen from his own. "Crabtree! Over here and locate your protégé Higgins and bring him along!"

By the time the two men joined us in his office, Inspector Brackenreid has resumed a commanding air, asking me to fill them in. I gave a brief synopsis, and watched Constable Higgins go a little pale when his part of the story was mentioned.

"The Toronto fire maps was indeed where I found the owner of record…I was going to tell you… how did he know that? Who _is_ he?" Constable Higgins asked, a little wide-eyed.

"Crabtree, Higgins. Have either of you two ever heard of Rioghnan "Silkie" O'Sullivan?" the inspector asked.

"No," was the reply in unison.

"I'm not surprised. Almost no one has…he is a shadowy character and yet he is one of the most influential people in all of Toronto. All of Upper Canada in fact. Let me tell you a story…" He checked to see that the doors were closed and no one as listening in. "I got this from the Chief Inspector Stockton himself way back when I was just a constable from when Lamb was the detective here. They had a devil of a case—drove Detective Malcolm Lamb right 'round the bend, it did." By this point at night it was dark out and the only other person in the Station House was the constable pulling night duty at the desk, so having satisfied himself they were alone, he started talking.

"Let's start with his name—'Silkie.' It references his ability to swim like the mythical sea creatures back home up north in Scotland & Ireland, known as the 'Selkies.' The whole bloody tale—more rumor than anything else, is that when he was not much more than a lad, he was swept off a fishing boat and left behind. He screamed and screamed for them to come back but the boat did not turn around. He screamed so much so he damaged his vocal cords and they never completely recovered. He allegedly swam himself to shore from a mile or more out to sea. And the story is he got his first taste of revenge against the captain and crew for abandoning him and then fled to New York and then to Toronto to avoid the consequences. Once in Toronto he worked the docks, started a simple ferry service as a lad and built it up over the last thirty years into an empire that stretches from here to Rochester and Fort Niagara to Kingston—including what goes through the Welland Canal." He looked at me, then continued:

"What you heard, doctor, was right—the word is nothing moves in the city without him. He supposedly owns or influences all the cartage and transshipping business, even the carriage services. A legitimate empire. It is said that goods, and people for that matter, either flow or are cut off by his say so. He keeps to the background—not flashy like that 'Fingey' Connors fellow down in Buffalo, but they are kindred spirits at controlling things, and he most definitely likes to run the show. He has a better relationship with the workers and is more invested in their welfare than most men of his nature, and he also has strong men who enforce his wishes, brutally if needs be. The O'Shay's for instance...you remember them. Just like in London's East End & docklands..." The inspector seemed to be remembering something as he said that. "And I am told he also keeps score…"

He proceeded to unwind his tale over the course of half an hour from behind his desk. Some of it sounded more farfetched than anything William ever accused George Crabtree of conjuring, and I was drawn to and frightened a little by the complex entanglements, even if only a scintilla of it was borne out by facts.

"If I may ask, sir, how do you know any of this is true now? Sounds a bit like an old war story to me…" Constable Higgins could not help asking, knowing the inspector's penchant for sharing a yarn or two.

Inspector Brackenreid ignored the impudence. "I heard part of this from Mr Meyers, of all people. Seems O'Sullivan doesn't like anarchists… bad for business I suppose. I also know there haven't been quite as many labor troubles and dock strikes in Toronto, and that is supposedly because of O'Sullivan's influence, at least according to certain well-known Aldermen." The inspector gestured with a finger to the side of his nose, indicating the secrecy. He turned towards me and sighed.

"And now, doctor, he has an interest in you. And I thought Murdoch was the one always stumbling into things, poking his long nose where it didn't belong…" He cleared his throat and stood, putting his hands in his pockets. "Is there anything to what he's saying? Are people mysteriously dying?"

"His information is compelling, Inspector. He gave me a list of names of people from all over the city," I said.

"Are we looking at a sequential killer of some sort?" asked Constable Higgins.

"Good question, Henry." A.D. Crabtree interjected. "What would someone's motive be? How is being done? And why does O'Sullivan care? And if he is so connected, how come he does not already know?"

"Those are all good questions, many good questions. What we need are answers. What do you need us to do, doctor?" All eyes turned to me.

If I had considered ahead of time where my little exploration about crime statistics was leading I might not have begun. "I am not exactly sure, but considering the time…" we all looked at the handsome pendulum clock on the inspector's wall, "nothing more is going to happen tonight. I have to look again at my data and I have to consult with a few colleagues. Until then, gentlemen, I am ready to go home." Higgins hailed me a cab and sent me off in it, but not before I sent another message for Isaac.

# # #

 **Sunday October 18**

I had expected to have trouble sleeping when I got into bed after such a long and upsetting Saturday, but all of a sudden it was morning again and a quiet Sunday was before me. I laid in bed a while, stretching and luxuriating, waking up slowly as if from a fulfilling dream of….well, nothing I should revisit at that moment. I looked around my room at the scatter of papers I had brought up to study and had instead fallen asleep while perusing. _Oh,_ I thought. _That was the reality of the situation: Death…No beautiful dreams coming true..._

I stacked the pages carefully aside, ate my breakfast and got washed and dressed for the day. Then I brought the papers into my dining room and inserted all the leaves in the table until I had a larger workspace. I had my morgue ledger, the inspector's report and the Toronto Sanitation Commission report. I also had the map I retrieved from the Station House. I added the information gleaned from Mr O'Sullivan to a separate list, spread it on the table top and stared at it all until my head hurt.

I was able to connect some, but not all, of the deaths on Mr O'Sullivan's list to the recorded death certificates. That was just one of the problems I was running into—where did the records go? Why where some deaths not recorded, not counted?

Another problem was that all the deaths I _could_ connect to a death certificate appeared to be from illness or disease—deaths from natural causes as it were, not murders. The records themselves were incomplete and not always specific about the illness that had caused the death, and where there _was_ an illness listed, the diagnoses were various: putrid fever, scarlet fever, croup, diphtheria, pneumonia, grippe, acute fever, tetanus, seizures, kidney failure, heart failure, and typhus…Essentially a cornucopia of immediate causes of death, mostly based on symptoms, and unless that person was autopsied, well… whatever the doctor who wrote the death certificate said the cause was, it was not verified or further investigated. I wondered if one of the doctors was covering something up or merely incompetent, but there was no pattern I could discern among the physicians.

It _was_ the spike in deaths, of children and family clusters that Mr O'Sullivan was worried about, which stood out. Children, even in this modern day and age and in a developed city like Toronto, died with heartbreaking frequency, and not only among the poor. Many parents put multiple children in tiny graves—it was a fact of life. An already ill, impoverished, malnourished and neglected child will easily succumb to a second disease or illness, sometimes even the first symptoms of it. Improved sanitation, medical care, better diet, clean air—these helped but did not guarantee a child would reach the age of majority.

I tried to consider what kind of personality would commit this kind of crime, if indeed there was a crime here. I tried out various combinations of means, motive and opportunity. I imagined how someone would hide their activities. I even tried to follow the money as the inspector would have said—no profit was revealed to me. The morning flew by with me arranging and rearranging the information. By the time I was ready to leave my flat and travel to the club for lunch with Isaac, I was ready to break down and roust Detective Murdoch out of his sick bed….

But of course that was just my exasperation talking. To expel my frustration I got my cycle out of the storage shed and rode to the club, unmindful of what the wind would do to my hair.

On the ride I pondered the problem: It was clear to me I did not have enough concrete information to make any kind of links between Mr O'Sullivan's list and anything I knew from these reports. I was definitely missing something, but I had no idea what. I began to better appreciate the benefits of having someone as a sounding board to discuss the nettlesome details of a puzzling case, so I started to imagine such a conversation in my head… In any event the cycling did me a world of good and my mind and mood were steady by the time I arrived, and I was ready with my toilette freshened when I met up with Isaac.

Isaac had a nice table picked out for us in the dining room but I asked if we could be outside instead. I did not want our conversation to be overheard if I could help it, and it would also be one of the last times to enjoy eating outside before the atmospheric conditions changed from what was known in the vernacular as "Indian Summer" when southerly winds warmed the area, to decidedly colder wind and weather from the north and west. I was much more interested now in meteorology since developing an interest in balloon flight. I also loved the view from the wide porch and as the temperature was warm enough with a shawl, and the sunshine bright, it was quite perfect to sit over a meal and a coffee in the fall air.

"Julia, it was splendid you asked to have luncheon. I was hoping you could catch me up on your latest adventure—you are actually going to pilot a balloon?" Isaac asked, I assume thinking he was going to be teasing me. "Unbelievable! Whatever possessed you?"

"Absolutely I am going to do it! And by the way—how did you find out? I am not revealing that to anyone …"

"Miss Snively, the nursing matron at the hospital mentioned it when she discovered we were friends." He seemed to want to have a social outing with me and I was about to disappoint him as I had a wholly other agenda.

"Isaac," I said, "I have a problem I'd like to talk with you about and it is important that you keep it quiet." I looked at him across the table top and I saw his face change from casual and happy to worried. "No, nothing about me—well not exactly. But I have a problem and I was hoping you could help me out. I trust you and you are well-integrated into the medical community in a way I am not— one point being Miss Snively, with whom you are obviously better acquainted than I. I was hoping you could render an opinion for me?"

He sat back, blinked and then nodded, saying nothing but gesturing with his long hand for me to continue. I had refined my speech on the way over, editing out everything about Mr O'Sullivan, so I was able to deliver my points succinctly in between the delicious soup and main course. While I was feeling better as I delivered my appeal to him, Isaac looked more and more distressed, but he let me speak uninterrupted, before asking for a few clarifications.

I summed up by telling him what I told Mr O'Sullivan about my expertise in looking at anomalies: the answer was in the data if I could just find enough of it and tease out the meaning. "Isaac, what do you think? Is it possible someone or something is causing these deaths, and if so, how can I get enough information to prove both the existence of the pattern and identify the culprit?"

"Julia, I have always told you to trust your instincts—what else is bothering you?" He asked quietly.

"I wonder what has happened to the people, mostly children, whom I have on a list of the dead, for whom a death certificate is not recorded. I also wonder if there is a common denominator among the illnesses."

Isaac absorbed that with a scowl on his face. "Julia, I have another idea for you. One of my patients just died of tetanus which I diagnosed. I did not give it a second thought, but now that I think about it, the parents seemed at odds with each other, blaming each other for the lad's death. They had consulted with me a couple of weeks prior to his death about getting him antitoxin for diphtheria—his sister had died from the dread disease. But they were unable to afford the treatment, and were going to come back when they raised the amount. Then, I got a call to come to their home to attend their son, as it turned out too late…."

I had barely touched my coffee and the cake was uneaten. I started thinking out loud. "Isaac, what if instead of spending the money on antitoxin which they could not afford, they went to the free clinic? What if the medicine was contaminated and that was what killed their boy?"

As we speculated I lined up the diagnoses I had been working with: Tetanus and seizures can be mistaken for each other; the other list of symptoms all fit with diphtheria, especially if the person did not develop the characteristic grey film in their throat that blocked the airway—succumbing to fever or other infection signs before it was noticeable. That could explain why it targeted children or those who were weak in the first place. And a contaminated antitoxin could certainly give tetanus rather than cure or protect from diphtheria. It could explain why there was an uptick in properly identified deaths from both tetanus and diphtheria in clusters. I lost focus and lost track of what Isaac was saying, recalculating the parameters of my inquiry. I finally heard him the third time he said: "Julia?"

"I think I need to talk with Dr Irving. And I need to talk with Paul." I was already standing, focused on getting home to re-sort my numbers again. "I'm sorry, Isaac, I really am, but I have to go. I will call you, I promise." I left him at the table (he had a decidedly alarmed look on his face), went purposely for my cycle and got home at a very brisk pace.

A terrible thought pushed me forward. _What if I can geographically link the scattering of deaths to the churches and union halls that host the free clinics? What if the clinic set-up is involved somehow?_ I will need to tie the timing of the deaths to the dates of the clinics as well— What that means, of course, is the possibly that Dr Irving, or one of his staff members, had something to do with the deaths. I found it stomach-churning for a healer to be revealed as a cold killer, but what if that was the truth?

I had a lot of work to do before the morning and wanted to get started. After looking at the papers on my dining room table, I sighed in resignation. I was going to have better luck going through all of this at the morgue, so I organized them once again and this time hailed a cab to bring me to my office. There in my well-ordered space, music playing, chalk board set up, I worked out the particulars.

I enjoyed no satisfaction in finding what I had desperately been looking for.

# # #

 **Monday October 19**

I decided to start my Monday before the sun rose at the University, so promptly at 6:30 am I presented myself at Paul's office…which was dark and locked. I regrouped and walked across to his laboratory that was already bustling with activity, electric lights blazing, as Mr Norwood was setting up the day's student experiments and tending to the ongoing research that Paul was conducting. He was in the process of stacking boxes of glass vials into separate piles by the stairway door. Mr Norwood spotted me and grimaced briefly before coming over to me.

"Good morning, Dr Ogden. May I help you?" He stopped to wipe his hands in order to shake mine, politely enough, I thought. His blonde hair was already mussed from him running his hands through it, probably in frustration.

"Good morning Mr Norwood. I am looking for Dr DuMaurier. I was supposed to meet him here. Do you know if he is running late?" I inquired, looking around a bit at the set up again.

"He's always running late, y'see. Always makes the students wait while he's off gallivanting about something or another. You really shouldn't expect him until much later. I run the laboratory here, doctor, if you must know. Maybe I can help you?"

I equivocated. I did not want to discuss the problem 'Silkie' had dumped in my lap 2 days ago with Mr Norwood, so I stuck to my original intention to borrow a book and get a my sample confirmation. "Perhaps… would you know where Dr DuMaurier's reference materials for infectious diseases are, or failing that, since you are involved in his research, could you verify a sample for me?" He seemed nervous, possibly about overstepping his bounds, as he considered his answer.

"Well, I think I can…if you would not mind coming with me over to his office?" He gestured to the hall and we went over, with Mr Norwood opening Paul's office and turning the lights on. He reached over to a pile of books and located the one he wanted. "I think this will do…and if you want to give me the sample I will look at it. What do you think it is a sample of?" he asked.

"I think it is a diphtheria infection from an open sore, not very common in Toronto I know. It is from a young boy whom I came across, and who later died. I am worried he may have unknowingly infected others."

"So he died from that?" he asked.

"No. Will you be able to verify the diphtheria for me?" He nodded as I asked, and then I flipped through the reference manual—and saw a drawing looking very similar to Freddie's wound and started reading.

He came back very quickly. "I am sorry doctor, I can give you a preliminary confirmation, but I really think you should have Dr DuMaurier examine it himself. As you can hear," he gestured to sounds from the laboratory, "the students are coming in so I really must get going. I will have him call you if that is all right?" He looked at the reference work. "Feel free to take that with you, I'm sure he won't need it or even miss it. Can you see yourself out?"

Since he seemed intent on getting me out of there and returning to his work and considering it _was_ very much like Paul to be late or to have forgotten all together about agreeing to meet me, I told Mr Norwood I would take the book and would appreciate Dr DuMaurier's diagnostic confirmation, but that it was very important I speak with him as soon as possible on another urgent matter. On my way out I glanced back to the lab and saw Mr Norwood arguing in a low voice with what I assumed was one of the students. _Ah, yes,_ I thought _, I recall the gruesome grind of my University days and its petty grievances._ I grinned: I was very glad to have left it all behind.

My next stop was two buildings over to speak with Dr Irving. The discussion was most edifying and most disturbing.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

By the time I got to the morgue I was weighing whether or not I wanted to check in with Inspector Brackenreid. When I finally gave into my curiosity and travelled over to his office, he was not there, as most of the officers and men were at site of a large fire, trying to keep order. As I had not been called yet to the scene, I was hopeful that no lives were lost. I told the desk sergeant to inform the inspector that I would be back in the later afternoon, and hoped he could spare me a few moments.

Unfortunately, as soon as I returned to my office, I was informed by Mr Baynes to expect at least one victim from the fire that was being brought to the morgue-a fireman crushed by falling debris while doing his job. Mr Baynes and I prepared for the corpse to arrive as well as for the family and his colleagues to be coming by to view the body and officially identify him. I would likely have little to do by way of autopsy unless there was a criminal complaint associated with the fire, but would be called on at minimum to do an examination and sign the death certificate so the undertaker or family could claim his remains.

My thoughts inevitably drifted to Detective Murdoch, himself injured in the line of duty and thankfully recovering. I was reminded that, more than most physicians, I had a very clear picture about what _could_ have happened in that fall, was _had_ happened to his body and what _was_ happening beneath the skin and beneath the bandages, as only a medical examiner would know.

I shuddered involuntarily. _I would have been asked to conduct the postmortem!… No family would identify him or claim his body… he had no one._ No family, officially, just the colleagues he has through work and his landlady—they serve as his family, at least for now. _At least until Mrs Jones…_

While I waited for the corpse of the fireman to be delivered, I called Paul, reckoning that he was back in his office by now and available. I was pleased and surprised I was correct—he answered after a short set of rings.

"Paul, I am hoping you can help me with a little dilemma I am having," I said after we got the pleasantries out of the way.

"What is it Julia?" he asked.

"Did Mr Norwood give you my sample and are you able to confirm the diagnosis?"

"Yes. He's right here helping me grade papers. I looked at what you brought me. Diphtheria is correct, although I grant you these lesions are unusual to find in Toronto. You know my work on trying to develop an antitoxin for that, because it is so expensive to import—there is almost a monopoly on it, and I am not sure it is the best treatment possible—that is where my research is going—into alternatives. I need to know much more about the spread of the disease and how individuals respond to both the infection and the treatments."

"Paul. Do you think someone with a lesion like that could infect others easily?"

"Well, they could if the contact was close enough. Did this kill your victim?" he asked.

I answered. "No, actually, I think it was tetanus."

"Tetanus? Really? You know if you make antitoxin in horses that are infected, the medication will be contaminated. That is why I have been experimenting with making it with other hosts than horses, and with trying to develop a quicker less expensive test for the purity of the medication. Even the imported drugs can be dangerous, not always safe. Do you think he got tetanus from some other source or from contaminated drugs?" He sounded very interested.

"I am starting to believe he received contaminated medicine, and that he is not the only one. I am on the track of possibly dozens of deaths…" I suddenly did not want to say much more.

"That many deaths? You are finding a pattern in deaths associated with contaminated drugs? Who have you told about this? You had better not announce anything prematurely…"

I did not respond right away, and decided to pass on answering directly. "I appreciate that Paul. Let me ask you a further question in your area of expertise. What would be your estimation of the incubation periods and mortality of diphtheria and tetanus in deconditioned people in general but especially children who are already ill or weakened in some way?"

He did not even have to pause to calculate and ran through a string of figures and statistics off the top of his head that I scribbled down as quickly as my pencil could go. When he was done I offered my gratitude. "Thank you for your help. I wondered if you would like to take in a lecture with me next week?" We chatted for a bit about inconsequential and rang off, with a promise to meet for dinner before the lecture. I was experiencing mixed feelings—satisfaction in having arranged a date for myself with an interesting companion, and unease about where my investigation was heading.

Work fully absorbed my attention for the remainder of the morning, with taking care of the firefighter and his mother and widow. When they had departed I made the required assessment of his body and was ready to sign the death certificate so the undertaker could have him. A public funeral was in the planning stages. With nothing else to do, I turned my attention to what I had learned from Isaac, Paul and Dr Irving, working my way through the information, well into the day, and before I knew it, it was time to go home, hoping the light drizzle had ceased.

I stopped by the Station House on my way home, but the inspector and his men were still wrapped up with the remains of the fire, so I left word I would come by to see the Inspector the following day, and I left a separate note for A.D. Crabtree.

I felt exhausted by the time I got home even though it was not a particularly hard day, and my nerves were wound up. I took myself for a walk around several blocks to relax, and finished with a glass or two of port with a simple meal in my kitchen. When none of that quieted me enough to help me go to sleep, I got out my books on navigation and meteorology and then was able to spend an hour or two lost in contemplating soaring. I found myself much more appreciative of the weather than ever before, looking for my opportunities to have aeronautic lessons. I was learning to read the clouds…it was quite _fascinating!._ I was feeling light and contented by the time I turned out the lights and slept well, with the window open to capture the cool night air.

# # #

 **10:30 am Tuesday October 20**

"Detective Crabtree, thank you for coming." I locked the door behind us.

He looked at me with raised brows. "My pleasure doctor, but why the secrecy?"

"Considering that we are not sure whom we can trust, and because I don't want to cause a panic, I thought it wise." I motioned him over towards the center of the work space. "I asked you to come because you were concerned about young Freddie's death." I had pulled the lad's body out of the cooler in preparation for the city undertaker.

"Yes. His brother is coming to accompany his remains very soon. A pauper's grave, but at least a Christian burial. " He came over and stared at the small body beneath a white sheet, and placed a hand gently on the covered chest. "Do you have his cause of death, doctor?"

"Yes . . . In fact, he died of tetanus, what you would call lock-jaw sickness. But he also had diphtheria I believe."

"I thought diphtheria was a respiratory problem…" his face wrinkled in confusion.

"Normally, yes. But some people are asymptomatic, meaning they carry the disease without seeming to be sick themselves. And in Freddie's case, that sore on his leg was an infectious lesion. Sores like that are usually seen in tropical regions, not here, and I missed it when I examined him."

"But that is not what killed him? His brother said he took him to one of the clinics for treatment…"

"Yes, I thought that was so. I would not have been able to piece any of it together except that his body was found and made its way to the morgue…" I stopped mid-sentence, and found myself struggling to order my thinking. Poor, young, active Freddie had to die for me to get to the truth and I was unaccountably sad.

"Doctor…?" He already picked up on my distress, which I thought I had well-hidden. This was the second time in two days someone saw through my façade of control: apparently I was more tired than I knew.

"Detective. Freddie here did not actually get medical attention at one of the free clinics. His brother might have taken him, but the lad was given or more likely sold a concoction that ultimately caused his death."

George's face fell briefly into his own knot of pain before he covered it up.

"It is his death that got me thinking in a new direction." I continued. "Not all persons who are brought to me for autopsy are victims or suspected victims of crimes, such as those that are contained in the constabulary's monthly reports. You only know about those because of your line of work. Sometimes it is merely an unexplained death or someone who dies who is not under the care of a physician and the cause and manner of death needs to be determined for the death certificate, like young Freddie here. And only because he never did get to a clinic or a doctor for treatment."

"Most routine deaths are handled by the hospital or physician who was treating the deceased I take it?" he guessed.

"Normally, yes. That's how I know Freddie was never actually seen by the clinic staff—I checked. He had no doctor looking after him. Also, the Toronto Sanitary Commission collects data on illness and disease and, as you know, the police gather data on crimes and convictions, both including a geographic distribution element. BUt there are a lot of deaths that are recorded nowhere except for perhaps the family Bible, if they have one, and sometimes not even then…" I left that hanging.

I knew George Crabtree to be a sensitive young man, quick-witted and kind. The detective was thoughtful, even troubled at present. "You know doctor, not so long ago there were rumors, a scandal even, about immigrants who buried the dead just about anywhere the ground could be turned. The poor souls were so fearful of the authorities, _and_ doctors," he nodded towards me, "that they hid illness or disease, and even _deaths_ out of concern they'd be evicted, or deported, or could not afford either the medical care or the money for a proper burial, especially babies or the very young…"

I knew he thought about his own foundling status, and that it drew him towards youngsters. He said in a soft voice: "The thought being no one would notice one less small child, give or take…" He saw my expression and cleared his throat. "I'm not saying I know it to be the truth…but I know how desperately these people struggle for survival…."

I was aware he was prone to rather imaginative theories, but I had a suspicion there was at least some fact behind this one, and that could explain why there were no death certificates for some of the individuals on Mr O'Sullivan's list. "I appreciate that, detective. But that is why I wanted to show you this."

I pointed at the chalk-board I had placed by my workbench. He looked at the notations I had pinned everywhere. "Doctor… it looks like you had to move each piece of information around one at a time until you got it all in order—it looks like a giant puzzle game…. Are these numbers right?" He drew his hand over his face in distress.

I nodded. "I must credit Constable Higgins for some of this, which I put together with other information. These are spikes in deaths, particularly of children, from illnesses with similar symptoms… sometimes whole families… that directly coincide with University free-clinic days. The clinic sites rotate throughout the community and will draw in people from all over, but mostly the locals-I got that information from the man who runs the clinics. The deaths start within the week after. And another spike in deaths from tetanus or something similar, like Freddie here, starting about 2 weeks later. It is especially interestingly that the deaths are not from people who were actually treated at the clinic, or at least not necessarily seen there. I don't have complete data at all, but…"

I continued. "…At first I did think the clinic or one of the doctors might have been responsible. Instead, what if the medicine was purchased on the black market? People thought it was the genuine treatment and that is would be safe for them to use."

He nodded. "So it is possible someone is selling this on the side, perhaps targeting desperate families, or people who are turned away from the free clinics? Offering fake medicines, which are either knowingly or unknowingly tainted?" the detective summarized.

I added: "And if nothing moves in the city without "Silkie's" network moving it…"

"Then he or his network is involved in it somehow…or is using us to shut down someone working against him…" He drifted off in contemplation. "How many…?"

I took a breath and caught his eye. "If you even discount it by a small amount due to inaccuracy or for those that never got statistically counted, these clusters of deaths add up into the hundreds!"

Looking at the numbers he swore a "Bloody Hell" that the inspector would be proud of, and was so upset he did not even offer to apologize.

# # #

I was still thinking through the several conversations I had over the past weeks, trying to knit them together into a whole with limited success. I was sure that my facts were accurate and it was devastating to tally the sheer number of deaths that someone was responsible for, whether deliberately or from some wild mischance.

Isaac and Dr Irving confirmed that as long as the person's death was not directly attributable to an infectious agent, and as long as a person died (theoretically) under a doctor's care (hence no autopsy), information was not systematically gathered. That combined with the number of people who sought no medical care at all and for whom there was misdiagnosis… Then there were the poor, for whom, it turns out, no death certificates were issued especially if the person died at home and was buried surreptitiously, if I can credit what I had been told.

I shuddered to think of all the corpses laid to rest under the cabbages and bushes in back yards. It was staggering. I wondered if our society had become too accustomed to deaths, _or inured more likely, overwhelmed by the enormity and therefore feeling powerless to do anything about it._ I was so distracted I did not hear my assailant come up on me as I walked across the empty laneway towards the Station House.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

 **4:20 pm Tuesday October 20**

"Get in an' be quick about it." The knife pressed expertly between my corset stays and I could feel the sharpness through the layers of fabric— _This is not good…_ I thought. "You just can't leave it alone, can you woman? I should just gut you here, but I t'ink I'll let t' boss decide." I was jerked into the back of what smelled like a fish-monger's wagon and told where to sit and be silent. I decided to comply. In a painful flash I recognized the blade in my side was just the right size and shape to have created the odd stab wound I was investigating – the correct length and curvature. I felt my temperature rise and sweat starting to trickle from my neck. My hands were restrained by having one man on each side of me and I thought longingly about the wicked new hatpin I possessed but could not reach at that moment.

I was pretty sure where we were going, and as I was already planning on seeing Mr O'Sullivan, decided discretion was the better part of valor. _More Shakespeare_ , I thought. _The inspector would be so pleased._

We pulled up to the back of a warehouse and I was taken through a warren of corridors and what seemed to be several intervening buildings and up a flight of stairs until we arrived at what I assumed was O'Sullivan's office space. O'Shay hustled me awkwardly into the room, and held my arms behind my back as I struggled in an undignified manner. My mouth was not restrained, and as I guessed "Silkie" O'Sullivan liked cheeky retorts, I decided to give him one.

"Mr O'Sullivan, you should remind your errand boys here," I indicated the O'Shay brothers, "that I have already killed one man who accosted me. You wanted me here, so I assume you do not want to cause me any harm, but I will have no compunction to defend myself, so tell him to let me go!"

O'Sullivan dropped his serious expression and laughed in his harsh rasp. "Let her go. I did not ask you to kidnap or otherwise molest Dr Ogden, especially in such a public manner, and you know how much I hate it when people do things against my wishes." Despite his smile and casual delivery the O'Shays visibly quailed.

His quiet voice demanded a listener to pay close attention—I was sure he used that to his advantage in many venues with many people. The fists around my arms released me and I sat in a leather chair in his non-descript office comprised of a plain wooden desk _with two telephones!_ , a quartet of chairs around a mahogany conference table, and an entire wall of filing cabinets. The windows had a view of the buildings across the street and nothing more. It looked like the back office of any other scrappy small business, hardly the _sanctum sanctorum_ of a rich and powerful man. Nothing here was calculated to impress a guest… _Except of course the man himself—which was, of course, the point_ , I realized.

He poured tea in a translucent, paper-thin porcelain cup, (plain, no milk or sugar) and politely handed me the beverage. His movements were elegant and deft despite his bulk. He turned to the O'Shay clan members and dismissed them, saying: "I will deal with you later," and came around back to me. He ran his fingers through his fluffy grey hair, scraping it away from his face with large, blunt hands, thereby accentuating the widow's peak on his brow, and the soft flesh under his dark eyes. He took the chair next to mine and his own cup of tea, sipping it in evident pleasure.

My heart was pounding but my hands were calm on the cup, steady as if I was preparing for a delicate surgical procedure. I kept mum with effort, hoping Mr O'Sullivan would reveal something to me. We could have been two old friends enjoying a quiet moment together.

I thought of all the ways I could manipulate him into confessing to something, but each scenario fell by the wayside. He was more skilled at this than I, or I was more impatient. _I should have studied William's techniques more closely,_ I thought wryly. It took no time at all to understand I was in danger and that only the truth would be wise.

"Mr O'Sullivan," I began. "I believe that I have found the cause of at least some of the cluster of deaths you were concerned about. Someone is selling tainted or fake medical treatments—passing off inoculations to unsuspecting people who then sicken or die from the medicine. I believe your, er… distribution network has been responsible for selling the drugs on the streets, in the wards, to desperate people. They used the University clinics for cover, or, maybe used them as a way to recruit buyers."

"Go on, doctor."

I gave him the gist of my findings as well as my estimation of the death toll. He took it in intently, silently and with a flare of rage in his eyes when I toted up how many deaths I reckoned occurred, much larger than he had previously thought. "I would be grateful if you could help me out to prevent any more tragedy. As you say, there is not much that happens in the city to which you are not privy or aware." I sat back and finished my excellent tea, hoping he would make the next move.

He seemed to be making some mental calculation, the answer to which caused him to relax and reassume an avuncular air. "Doctor, I believe we can come to an understanding. Whatever else you think of me, I am a businessman, not a monster. I support this community when others bypass it. I have created wealth, security, opportunity and jobs for thousands of people." I had heard this speech before from him and wondered if he was going to run for office after all rather than be the power behind all the power, and this was going to be his political resume. "I believe that the person you seek is one Clarence Norwood…"

I sat up abruptly and gasped, eyes wide.

"Ah, I see you know the name then. Mr Norwood has recently come to my attention via one of my more enterprising underlings." His eyes flicked once to the door through which the O'Shays passed. "And based on what you just disclosed to me I believe that is the correct connection." He checked his watch and stood, went to his desk and pressed a button. A slender young man entered the room, Mr O'Sullivan whispered something inaudible to him, and the man, perhaps his secretary, left immediately.

"Mr Sullivan, I have one other question. What kind of knife is it that Mr O'Shay carries?" I wondered if he would go that far.

He thought about it for a minute before answering this way: "Dr Ogden, I want to thank you for coming to visit with me today. I will arrange a carriage to take you back to…?" he asked.

"The morgue, if you please," I said, so grateful I was going to get out of there in one piece I did not disabuse him of the idea that I came to visit him on a social call. I was sure a third encounter with his presence would not end as benignly as these first two. I would find out about the knife some other way.

"Certainly. I have an engagement, so I must go. Please wait here for your ride. And doctor, don't take this amiss, but I hope we never meet again." With that he let himself out and left me alone in his office. My thoughts were jumbled still, but naming Mr Norwood fit. He had motive, means and opportunity, and was right under my nose the whole time.

The slender secretary appeared after about ten minutes and told me my carriage was waiting outside, and motioned me out yet another side door to the street below. I was barely to the threshold, confused that the carriage was pulling away without me, when the elder O'Shay rushed me roughly from behind, pulling me back through the doorway as he hissed in anger. I was taller than he, but he was powerfully built and nearly jerked me off my feet. There was no carriage, just the O'Shays lying in wait, apparently angry they were in trouble with their boss.

"You t'ink you're so high and mighty, don' you missy! I know all about you…raised lookin' down on your Irish maid, treating t' poor like so much garbage so far b'neat' you, you don' even know t'ey exist. Your whole comfortable life is made possible because o' the suffering o' t'others. You din't fool me in the least. I was at least tryin' to help and so what if I made a little coin out o' it…no one else was seeing' to 'em. T'ose clinic docs, pickin' and choosin' who gets helped, thinkin' they're God!" His chest was heaving now. "You're in it for t' money just like they all is. I'da nevr' done it if I known. I seen t' wee little ones die and their parents destroyed by grief, not even enough money t' bury 'em proper, just lay 'em out in a hole in t' yard or a field 'cause no _priest_ ," he spat that out, "would take pity and settle 'em in sanctified ground wit'out t' proper coins a-changin' hands."

I felt sour breath on my face while his large hard hand tightened around my throat, so that any protest I could muster was squeezed off. "I 'tink I should take you down a peg, show you t' proper order for t'iss worl'," he leered and licked the side of my face, adjusting his hold on me. " _You_ should be b'neat' _me_ an' when I'm done wit' you, and me brother here as well, no man will ever want you again…or perhaps you'll just disappear, an' you might guess I know how t' do _that_ …" His other brother came in very close directly in front of me to get a closer look, a dark look in his eyes and wild hair flying.

I did not even pause to think. I slipped slightly more sideways as my left fist shot straight out, breaking his brother's nose at the same time my right elbow rocketed backwards connecting with his eye, with a satisfying _crack_ and _snick_. They both howled and grabbed their heads. I quickly put a heel to the side of one knee on each man and heard two more popping sounds as both went down with more screaming.

I looked around for another weapon of opportunity and remembered my new hat pin. I snatched it out and brandished it before me, daring the men to get up at the top of my lungs. Constables Higgins, Evans, and Worsley flooded in at that moment and started their own yelling, with Inspector Brackenreid following on with his shotgun. I was never so glad to hear the sound of a shell loading in all my life.

"Inspector!" I hailed him in between gasps for breath. "I have this sorted. How did you find me?"

"Well, as for that, when we got here we sort of followed the noise," he indicated the still groaning brothers. "Actually these two weren't so bright to grab you in broad daylight—you were seen. We have had a loose surveillance around you since the other night, doctor. Just in case. And we also put some ears to the telephone lines—calling for a cab from this address to take a lady to the city morgue-well it has to be for you. It confirmed the address Higgins obtained on O'Sullivan." He paused to peer at me. "Are you all right, doctor? Did they hurt you?" he asked, looking at my mussed hair and clothing as well as the still-moaning O'Shay men who were now restrained by the officers.

"No, I am quite all right. A little exhilarated in fact." I could feel adrenalin pumping my heart. The inspector noticed a small drip of blood from my throat where a fingernail had dug in, and he gave me his handkerchief to blot it with my left hand. I said as brightly as possible: "I don't think they expected me to fight back. Who knew that a thorough knowledge of anatomy and plus archery skills would save the day, eh, Inspector?" I wanted to kick those obnoxious men again, in an even more tender section of their anatomy but that would be unladylike overkill, no matter how satisfying. I waved my hands around for emphasis and noticed the hat pin was still gripped in my right fist. With a flourish, and a glare at my would-be assailants, I speared it back into my chapeau and the remains of my hair knot.

The Inspector looked again at the two suspects and chuckled. Just then A.D. Crabtree came in, slightly flushed. "He's gone, Inspector…there is no one there. O'Sullivan is gone." His disappointment was evident, but altered immediately to somewhat wide-eyed curiosity when he took in the sight of me and the O'Shay's. "Sweet Jesus! Doctor, what happened here?"

I finished tidying my hair a bit and smoothing my outfit. "I think you'll find these gentlemen, and I use the term loosely, are in need of medical attention, which I am willing to render if they will allow it. Two knee injuries, one broken nose and one damaged eye—not sure if he is blinded, but it is possible. They'll live."

"More's the pity," grumbled the inspector not too far under his breath. His animosity towards the O'Shay's was unabated, but he said only, "Oy! Do you want this lady's medical attention?"

Both men shook their heads. "Then, off with you both. You are under arrest for kidnapping Dr Ogden and whatever other assaults you committed or attempted to commit… and I have some murders to try out on you."

"Inspector," I said, "Arrest Mr Clarence Norwood—he is a laboratory assistant at the University in Dr Paul DuMaurier's department. He's the one suppling the tainted medicines that are causing people to die. He must be stopped."

The inspector's eyebrow's shot up, but he asked no questions. "Crabtree, you heard Dr Ogden. Go after Mr Norwood before he escapes or can do any more damage. And see to it they," gesturing with his thumb to the O'Shays, "get booked and someone to tend to them. Don't want anyone to think it was any 'police brutality' got them altered in that way, now do we? On the other hand, could be right embarrassing for anyone to discover one woman did that much damage…" He raised his voice for emphasis on this last bit and stared hard at each man before straightening up and coming back to me.

I said: "I rather think O'Sullivan is going to let the O'Shays go without his protection, at least for a minute. They are not on his most-favored list at present. And I have a guess about tying them to another murder…Here! I'll take that, Constable Worsley," I gestured to him so I could take a look at the knife that the constable removed from O'Shay's possession. I examined the blades and then gave it back, asking him to mark it as evidence. "An interesting specimen. Do you know what it is?"

"A sailor's rigging knife, I think it is—seen 'em before down at the docks," answered Constable Worsley.

"Fascinating. Thank you." I smiled at him but was thinking about other times I saw odd wounds.

Inspector Brackenreid waited patiently until we were alone, before confronting me. "Bloody Hell, doctor! What did you think you were on about? You could have gotten yourself killed!" He was not shy about holding back his displeasure out of ear-shot of the others.

"Inspector, I did not invite my kidnapping…in fact nether did O'Sullivan, it turns out. I did learn one important fact, however. It was O'Sullivan who identified Clarence Norwood, Dr DuMaurier's laboratory assistant, as the person that sold the tainted medications, trying to cash in on other people's sorrows. I think Mr Norwood tried to make his own batches but did not really know how to it properly so his patients died….The O'Shay's just shilled people to buy the drugs for a cut of the profits. I actually think they thought they were helping…"

"How did you put it together?" he questioned, offering his arm to steady me while made our way out, his anger vented and now business-like again.

I appreciated the support but shrugged it off. Adrenalin was still thrilling through my blood; I was staring to tremble a little but I valued remaining steady and independent at that moment. He ushered me towards the front of the building where his carriage was waiting, and as we walked, we talked.

"I didn't really, Inspector, not completely. But I think once again it is something about things not really being as they seemed to be—in this case Mr Norwood was not who he appeared to be. I think he overheard Dr DuMaurier talking to me on the telephone about the suspiciously large number of deaths and decided he had to do something to stop me. He called in the O'Shays, who brought me to Mr O'Sullivan. They thought Mr O'Sullivan would try to persuade me from further investigation or even eliminate me, not realizing their boss's interest was the same as my own. Mr O'Sulllivan, too, was not who the O'Shay boys believed him to be—at least not in this case. He put my information together with the O'Shay's little side-line business with Mr Norwood….I think if they had not tipped their hand it would have gone differently…."

I paused to consider, avoiding the obvious implications for my own well-being if things had gone terribly wrong, and started thinking out loud. "I still do not understand how O'Sullivan knows what he knows. I told you already about how his interest was alerted, presumably through something I said to one of my colleagues, someone at the clinics or through one of his street-informants. Or was it through his business or political associates or other contacts—any of the inquiries Constable Higgins made for me? I suppose even our conversation could have been overheard at the theatre, Inspector. I certainly hope it was not through someone in the constabulary…" I frowned because that connection was still not clear to me and the implications were disconcerting, causing me to start to doubt whom to trust.

The inspector added: "We may never know as his network is subtle and extremely well-hidden. I got a call from a city Alderman earlier today about making sure the constabulary did not offend Mr O'Sullivan…."

I looked at him and my grimace changed to a grin. "I recall what you are always saying…follow the money, is it not? I had to decide who actually profits from the deaths. Mr O'Sullivan gets a slice of every transaction in the wards, and that would evaporate suddenly if anyone in the wards knew he was making money off deaths—at least in _that_ way." I went on. "And it would expose him to the larger public in a manner that would unravel his empire. And that left means and opportunity. Mr Norwood had the means and opportunity to make and distribute medicines for a profit. He might have been angry at Dr DuMaurier and thought he deserved better. The O'Shay's were involved in the selling and distribution of the drugs I think."

"The O'Shays… I know the type well. So then, did any of them know the medicines were no good?" he asked.

"Maybe not at first. I can only speculate. Perhaps Mr Norwood thought of it as some grand experiment of his own in addition to the money it brought him. The poor people whom he prayed upon had no human value. The rich ones he likely had utter contempt for. Perhaps he imagined himself in some horrible delusion that he was doing a public service of some kind for the greater good. He actually paid some of them I think, to submit to experimentation … It's all quite repellent …." I trailed off. "We will know more when you get to interview him."

We came to the police hansom waiting on the street, so I was afforded a good view of the center of O'Sullivan's empire. It was quite a revelation. 66 Hymus was an ugly, two-story red brick structure with a flat roof, attached to a series of other non-descript buildings which were set back in series from the dead-end road. The square windows provided light perhaps, but no grace to the squat façade. There were entrances and exits everywhere, fences, enormous wagons and carts coming and going. Through to back of the whole complex of structures were entrances to various streets and alleys of bustling Toronto. The only indication of status was a plaque over the plain glassed door proclaiming _"O'Sullivan"_ in exotic and expensive aluminum script. There was scrubby grass and a bush or two struggling to survive the dust and dirt of the lane, and clearly losing the battle. Every aspect was almost deliberately unremarkable, forgettable in fact. The plain exterior of this building completely contradicted the activity that happened within it—it was hard to credit how O'Sullivan set the stage, directed outcomes, interfered with people's lives, manipulated events, pulled the strings in his network… I said as much to the Inspector at frustrated length.

"Indeed, doctor. Now let's get you home." He handed me into the cab and sat in beside me. "And, doctor, between you and me, let's not _ever_ tell any of this story to Detective Murdoch."

I rallied some indignation and spouted off without guarding my tongue. "Inspector, my actions are none of the detective's concern, as his are none of mine!" I said it too loudly, still stirred up perhaps by my close call.

"Precisely," he said looking sidelong at me. "So, let's not take a stick to that hornet's nest, shall we?"

I knew better than to open my mouth further on the subject and just nodded. After a moment, a new disturbing idea emerged. I said. "Inspector, rather than home, we should go to the University and locate and secure whatever means Mr Norwood was using to make the medicines. It is dangerous to keep that supply and the ability to produce it around. Word travels very fast—we don't want someone else to get there ahead of us…"

He reacted immediately. He let out a string of colorful invectives, a credit to his military service no doubt, as he shouted to the driver and redirected the carriage to the University.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

 **6:30 pm Tuesday October 20**

Locating the production of tainted drugs did not take as much time as I feared. While Mr Norwood was attentive to Paul's research, it seemed Paul was oblivious to what his assistant was up to and never really paid any attention to his notes, his comings and goings or even that he charged equipment to (or stole it from) Paul's laboratory or department. Mr Norwood's records were an easy map to the stables where he "cooked" his antitoxin and the vials of finished product were actually easily separated by label, made to look like the genuine item. He even kept records of what batches were distributed and where and who got the drugs. Constables were summoned to gather everything up that was not Paul's and to secure the horses.

Rather than go home with the inspector, I let him use the cab for police business as I wanted to confer with Paul, and was feeling more myself now that a little time had passed and the danger appeared over. I thought Paul would be as disturbed as I was with the outcome of the investigation, may need some consolation that this heinous activity happened right under his nose, so I wanted to discuss it with a sympathetic ear, as I was used to going over cases and pick apart ideas. Paul set me in a chair in his office with a cup of tea laced with who-knows-what, but it was bracing and "just what the doctor ordered," I told him when he presented it to me.

Paul was thumbing through Mr Norwood's laboratory notebooks. "This is extraordinary. He kept excellent records. My God! If only he had come to me…. This could shorten my work by years, maybe even help me beat out Behring to advance Roux or Yersin!" His eyes were shining in a fevered way, as he read page after page.

I first though I misheard him, and when it was obvious he was serious I was disgusted. "Paul! You cannot possible use that data! People _died…children_ died!" I am sure I nearly jumped out of my chair, spilling my tea over the side table and my skirt, not caring in the least that I had.

"Julia!" He looked at me like I had lost _my_ mind. He seemed to not believe me or thought I was teasing him. He had a bewildered smile on his face. "I thought you understood me. I thought we were of the same mind…" He hefted the books. "When we need data there should be no barrier to obtaining it. The greater good demands this by nothing more complex than a simple cost benefit analysis. I told you at some length I heartily disapprove of anything that gets in the way of knowledge, you said you agreed!" His quizzical smile remained frozen on his face and he clutched the books harder.

"Paul—it is immoral, _unthinkable_ you should use ANY of that. It is as poisoned as his drugs, it is tainted—no good can come of it…" I was at a loss to explain how grotesque I believed his actions would be.

Paul frowned. "Julia, I never thought you would be one of those who would put up roadblocks to curing diseases out of misplaced sentiment and affection towards the necessary research subjects? …"

"Paul, they were not research subjects, they were victims of a hideous crime, wrapped up in a rationalization by someone who lost his way, fueled by greed, eroded by jealousy and who know what else. He as much as _murdered_ those people! You just _cannot_ use that data!" I tried to grab the lab notebooks and he drew them away from me.

"I will be the judge of that," he said, and stood up to lock the books up in his file. "Science provides facts but does not tell us what to do with that information. It is only in pure science, not ethics or religion or morals that truth can be found. _Truth,_ Julia. That is all that matters to me."

I was temporarily speechless, and in quick succession felt deeply ashamed and guilty. For weeks I had been consciously and probably subconsciously comparing Paul DuMaurier to William Murdoch. Now I knew: there was _no_ comparison and I was a fool to ever think there was. I rejected William on the basis of what I thought were stubborn or superstitious flaws in his moral compass that I thought he would be unable to resolve.

 _The truth was_ _I was unable to overlook imperfection I judged in William's character, and I deliberately gave him no time to process the facts. I never even asked what helped him change his mind…._

I was ashamed to admit it was I who overlooked the stunning lack of character that Paul DuMaurier possessed, lulled as I was by fond memories and intellectual stimulation, while indulging in rationalizing the anger I directed at William because I was hurt.

"Paul, I will not allow you to use that data!" I practically shouted at him.

He smirked. "How will you stop me? By appealing to the heads of this university? Even though I do not ascribe to that view, you are an anathema to them. A woman physician. A lowly civil servant, a city coroner and a female one at that? This data is still the product of my laboratory and I have every right to claim it no matter its source. If I can come up with a better, cheaper set of drugs for desperate people I will get all the research money that could ever be thrown at the University and it will be _me_ that gets the next prize in medicine!" He stared at me, looking as if he thought he could win me over to his side.

My stomach dropped. As quickly as I could, I gathered my dignity and left without another word. As I descended the stairs I went from outrage to feeling quite ill inside, step by step. By the time I was in the quadrangle I realized that Paul was right—no one would care where the data come from and the prospect of money and glory were going to be too hard to resist…

" _Ethics" be damned..._


	20. Chapter 20

**Epilogue**

 **Wednesday October 21**

I came into the morgue, arriving very early the next day, hoping for time alone in my domain and perhaps a fresh cup of tea. The quiet provided a tonic for my jangled nerves and I enjoyed the clean white walls, the orderly collection of specimens, glassware and texts. Anything to provide anodyne for the chaos in my mind from the last few weeks. The room was actually graciously proportioned and well-lit, logically divided into work-zones and was organized (finally!) to my exact specifications, so that I could work efficiently and locate any item that was required quickly and without fuss. I was at all times aware of everything that went on within my purview and insisted that nothing was brought in or removed without proper documentation and my permission.

That was why I noticed immediately there was an _extra_ body.

It was right there, precisely in the middle under the best lighting, lying on my gurney under a clean sheet with the block already under his head.

No call to come to a crime scene (although not _every_ detective insisted), but also no paperwork, nothing in the log, no requests or notes from one of the station houses, and the body was already unclothed and appeared to be freshly washed—meaning all evidence to be found on the body was also washed away. I was so angry about the sloppiness in procedure and towards the person or persons who had taken such liberties in my morgue (as well as being captured by the peculiarity of the body's presence) at first I failed to notice an important clue: it was the body of Mr Norwood.

A shiver ran through me and I could feel the hairs rise on my arms and neck. I backed away from the corpse and looked around, my mood changing immediately from indignant irritation to trepidation. Then I looked closer at the body and my gut instinct led me to perform one simple test. Inspector Brackenreid was my first call and while I waited for him I called each of the other station houses and inquired fruitlessly if one of them had dropped off a body last night. I was just hanging up the telephone when he and A.D. Crabtree arrived.

The Inspector started by summarizing the complaint I made to him. "So, doctor. You say everything was locked up when you left last night and this morning, _he_ appeared." Inspector Brackenreid said. "Are you sure he wasn't delivered by one of the other precincts?" They both looked at the corpse and then back at me.

"Gentlemen, I am not in the habit of leaving things unlocked or misplacing bodies, and all the other precincts say they know nothing about this corpse—I have already checked. The morgue was secured last night and nothing else was disturbed. I have taken extra precautions against such violations since that head was removed from here earlier this year." The men looked at each other, recalling the case of a man with a bounty, literally on his head. "You can satisfy yourself about the locks on the doors, but they do not appear tampered with. No one has seen anything. As for Mr Norwood, he's been dead no more than about 8-10 hours."

I went over to the body. "You can see his eyes are still wide open. And when I pressed on his chest," repeating the move, "you can still see some of this thin foam coming from his mouth, indicative of drowning—although I believed he was fished out of the water pretty much right after death and then someone pushed most of the water out of his lungs and stomach, but not soon enough to have revived him." Both men observed the phenomenon in question. "I see no evidence of an external injury other than some scrape marks on his fingers and hands. You can see cataleptic rigidity…he was trying to clutch at something." I stood with my arms folded. "So he was drowned, cleaned up and pretty much immediately delivered here."

"What will a complete autopsy tell us doctor? Is there enough evidence left?" asked A.D. Crabtree. "Can you get anything from his fingers perhaps or stomach contents?"

I thought about it for a moment. "I may be able to tell where he was drowned when I examine the body and look at the water in the lungs, but you know my guess will be Lake Ontario, away from the shoreline. I expect I might find bruised and ruptured muscles in his shoulders, chest and neck from where he struggled in the water if he knew how to swim. Drowning is actually a terrible way to die…" I looked again at his hands. "Someone has scrubbed his hands and it even looks like may have picked out any debris that might have lodged there…"

"And this kind of drowning, is sort of O'Sullivan's signature move, don't you think, considering the story about what happened to him as a lad?" A.D Crabtree gestured to the gurney.

I was overtaken by a feeling of dread, and I am sure it startled my companions when I raced to the cooler and flung open the door, pulling out my tissue samples. The ones from Daniel Murphy's muscles indicating he struggled mightily in the water – _were gone._ I slammed the door shut with a muttered 'damnation.' The body had already been claimed. Someone was cleaning up after themselves.

"Doctor, do you think this is a threat to you directly?" asked the inspector. "I mean, the fact Mr Norwood is not only dead but someone got him in here and laid out like that? There was no note or anything….?"

"No. But I think the meaning is clear, don't you? O'Sullivan has delivered his version of justice and nothing will connect him to the body—but he wants me to know that he took care of it. If he did not wish it so, the body would never have been found…" I explained to them how I believed young Murphy turning up in a fishing net was probably an error on someone's part – the O'Shay's, I suspected. "At least I still have the corpse with the interesting stab wound I was hoping to link back to O'Shay's rigging knife. Although I suppose there are hundreds of such knives in service down in the docklands." I vacillated between frightened and furious. "All in all someone did a very thorough, knowledgeable job with, well… forensic counter-measures, I suppose you'd call it."

"Bloody Hell!" the inspector muttered. "We have the O'Shay brothers locked up so this is one crime we can't tie them to. Might even help get them off if some enterprising barrister wants to cast doubt. Do you think you can tie the body back to O'Sullivan?" he asked.

"I will do my best." I was privately not hopeful. "Someone with knowledge of evidence—with medical, or law enforcement experience…"

"Or _criminal_ experience….." the inspector nearly bit the words off, and the three of stood in silence for a long minute. I believe we each considered how deeply-insinuated O'Sullivan was within Toronto's main institutions and whom he might be able to influence or call on…

A.D. Crabtree cleared his throat. "Um, yes. Inspector, I suggest our men work on the other angles—tracking down who left the body, or who might have seen something, in the streets or the docks," he suggested, already making notes. "I will set the lads out right away." He paused, seeking permission and the inspector grunted agreement and waved him off. He passed Constable Higgins who came down the ramp and brandished this morning's Toronto Gazette which he handed off before leaving to follow Crabtree.

When we were alone, the inspector came closer and looked at me intently before speaking. "Doctor, neither you nor I think we are going to find the culprit, do we, eh? Let alone link this to Silkie…" I shook my head slowly as he continued. "And I don't think even Murdoch would be able to solve this one and get a conviction, O'Sullivan's made sure of that, clever blackguard that he is. Word will come down from the PM himself to back off! O'Sullivan would put any Afghan tribal warlord to shame with how tightly he controls his fiefdom. I remember them from my tour in that God-forsaken place." Inspector Brackenreid was rifling through the pages until he came to the Society Column. He folded the page and handed it to me, so I could read all about O'Sullivan's mention about being at a fund-raiser for an orphanage last night—the man who lives in the shadows made sure he had an alibi for the time of the murder. "A right bastard, isn't he?" The inspector said, and then caught himself to apologize, but I stopped him.

I had to agree with his sentiment. "He is almost taunting us, Inspector. I find that infuriating."

"Never forget, Mr Norwood here was a mass murderer—we will never know of how many… Can't say he did not get the death he deserved. As for making an enemy, I agree that O'Sullivan is not likely a threat to you—unless you go nosing around in his business."

I sighed and went to my desk and pulled out the bottle of whisky, thinking to soothe the disappointment and reciprocate the inspector's previous hospitality with my own. My hand brushed over the leather bookmark resting in my calendar, but I only paused for a second or two. I waved the bottle and two glasses in his direction expecting him to accept my offer. He looked only mildly scandalized and then pleased, but before he could reach for the glass his face fell and he dropped his hand.

"Thank you doctor, but, er… I am heading home and promised the wife I would not indulge, so I will beg off. As for the other matter, well, if you aren't pissing someone or another off, you just aren't doing your job, eh?" He winked and make a chucking noise with his mouth. "We've done good work on this one doctor, be glad for what went well and then let the rest go—there will be another day. Looks like the murder rate will be going right back up again in our precinct—too bad, I was liking lording it over O'Kelley." He picked up his hat and turned to me before going. "Now we _really_ need to get Murdoch back! Good morning, doctor," he said as he left.

I put the liquor away. I turned to the body and sighed again in resignation as I began a full external examination. However, my mood perked right up again: my reward for a long day's work today would be my first lesson in actual aeronautics with Mr Reginald Poundsett. As long as the weather did not deviate significantly from its current conditions, I would have smooth sailing. At least I'd have a story for Isaac and maybe a letter for Ruby. Better yet, I could avoid any mention of William Murdoch.

 _If only I could get him out of my thoughts…_

 _ **** END****_

 **Dear Reader: Thank you for coming along for the ride! Feedback is much encouraged. I am also trolling for inspiration for new stories—ideas, suggestions, challenges…all welcome, especially if it is something I have to not tried to do before (or need to do better!). Regarding my characterization of Julia's "character"- the show runner/writers (sadistic ghouls that they are) have built in this "dithery" and odd decisiveness in her-she leaves William hanging, _twice!,_ and as dramatic content it "works" to keep pulling them apart like that. She leaves him because she loves him but explains nothing, and he is forceful and articulate, ** every where BUT _with her,_ **but not rapid in his responses... it is a bloody romance novel full of unrequited, tongue-tied love-and we who love the show have lapped it up!**

Author's notes: The internet is a wonderful thing—e

 _Mary_ _Emma Manning_ (1869-1936) was quoted directly from a news article about her exploits performing in "Wild-West" type shows, encouraging women to step outside traditional behaviors and occupations.

Dr Luther Emmett Holt was from Rochester originally, and an expert who wrote the definitive texts on Childhood Illnesses back in the day: _Care and Feeding of Children_ and _Diseases of Infancy and Childhood._ He pioneered the science of pediatrics  & became the head physician at New York's Babies Hospital in 1888.

Miss Mary Agnes Snivley was in fact Toronto Hospital Superintendent of Nurses in 1896

Check the internet—there is an interesting story about not only cabbage being planted in Cabbagetown, but bodies, especially infants and children in yards and fields. Sounds apocryphal (and very anti-Irish) but intriguing…

The Irish were heavily discriminated against in Toronto and elsewhere -Canada and the States both, (due in large part, but not only, to their Catholicism) so they had to look out after themselves. "No Irish need apply" signs were not uncommon.

There was a meteorological observatory station on top of the Toronto School of Science in 1896. Balloons were sometimes used as well for weather observation and study. Weather systems in Toronto are such that drifting out over the lake was a distant possibility.

In 1896 a small handful of companies had a virtual monopoly on medications, even for communicable diseases (like diphtheria), and could charge whatever price they wanted (some things never change, eh?); and there was almost no standardization of dosages. Lots of things could (and did) go terribly wrong. Please read EnlightenedSkye's "Revelation and Contention" if you have not already, for an example. There were several well-known tragedies regarding contaminated medications, particularly tetanus from infected horses which were used to make antitoxins and serums.

There were no "ethical standards" other than the Hippocratic Oath (which only applied to physicians) in the way we know them now—no Human Subject Research committees, or Medical Ethics panels to vet experimentation on people.

Look up "Fingey" Connors' history in Buffalo NY. Toronto did indeed avoid some of the labor problems of other areas, at least for a while.

Thank you to the actors on hand at MM Fan day tour. They answered questions and did it with patience, politeness and aplomb—I put your characters in as a gesture of thanx.

I have decided (rather arbitrarily) that the Bonnie Raitt song "You" must be "their" song—go listen and tell me I'm wrong! It played over and over again on my radio as I was writing this…


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